Faster than the Devil
by thatgirl0303
Summary: Chicago, IL. 1926. Indiana Jones still isn't sure who to hold responsible for the events of that summer, but let's face it: Marion Ravenwood knew exactly what she was getting herself into.
1. June 3, 1926

**June 3, 1926**

Dad (or Abner, as I've been calling him lately—things have been a little rough between us since he missed my 17th birthday for some dumb seminar about the Ark, always with that stupid Ark) always said I'd make a great writer. I always said that for that to happen, I'd have to actually like writing. Funny, the things an almost painfully hot, boring summer day can drive a girl to do... things she'd never normally do, like turn down a day at the lake with Burt Dines, that cute psychology major from down the road, so that she could write. _Write_, for godssakes. What was I thinking?

Well, now that I've discarded the opportunity for a perfectly pleasant outing (and therefore, I am not at all ashamed to admit, some perfectly pleasant action) with Burt, I may as well give this whole "writing" thing a more than half-assed shot. My name, since I've never kept a journal/diary/etcetera before and I figure it's a good way to get the whole introduction thing over with, is Marion-Claire Ravenwood—people usually just drop the "Claire" part and call me Marion. Or Mary. But I like Marion better.

Pretty standard girl, I guess. American, which is neat. Wavy dark brown hair, peachy-ish skin with a few freckles… like I said, standard. I like being outside when possible, but at the same time, I'm not one of those outdoors-y types either. Books are amazing, my sanctuary, a God-send, anything _fictional_…I'm sorry, but Abner's obsession with history has more or less turned me permanently off of the non-fictional world. I also like drinking (anything, but my favorite is vodka) and playing cards with the guys I've grown up on this suburban Chicago street with, many of whom are now under pop's tutelage as history and archaeology students at UoC, but don't tell my dad that—he's still under the impression that I'm something of an angel. Then again, that's probably the impression most dads are under, and I pity the poor bastards.

But who wants to read about me anyways? Not that anyone's going to read this, I hope. Why do people write in journals, anyways, if no one is going to read them?

Remind me to think of a good hiding place for this thing…

Okay, I have to go—Abner (a not-so-terrible cook, when he actually decides to come home for dinner) is calling me down to the dining room. Normally it'd take me about ten minutes to heed that call, but I smell roast beef, so au revoir! Haha.

Until later,  
Marion

P.S. Forgive me if I never get the discipline to write in here again. Thanks. Bye!


	2. June 15, 1926

**June 15, 1926**

Told you I'm terrible at keeping up with these things – until about three minutes ago, I'd completely forgotten about writing this at all. However! Something entry-worthy and not at all related to the Ark (actually, I could be wrong about that, but hope not!) has actually happened in the Ravenwood household.

Abner's got a new student, somebody or other Jones. Indiana Jones. Weird name. Anyways, he showed up at the house around 4:00 this morning and very rudely woke up everybody – meaning me – with some craziness about a flight from Paris, something about the University of Chicago, and needing a place to crash. Not expecting anyone (especially in the wee hours of the morning and especially not a young, strapping, somewhat bum-like guy), I was, needless to say, careful about letting him in.

First, there was a knock on the door, loud enough to be heard in my room, since it's just off the foyer. Groggy and irritated, but awake enough to be suspicious, I got up and headed out to the entry hall to see what was going on. Leaving the chain on the door, I opened it slightly, enough to ask (and I admit this must have sounded a little strange coming from a nightdress-clad seventeen-year-old girl), "Who are you, and what the hell do you think you're doing on my front step at four in the goddamn morning?"

He seemed a little shaken, but tilted his head slightly, trying to get a better view of the person interrogating him, and replied, "Uh… is this the Ravenwood house? Because I am REALLY sorry if it's not, I mean, I guess I'm sorry if it is too, since it's so early and all, but I had this really long flight from Paris and all the hotels around here are full and I…"

"Okay, okay, I get it," I replied snappishly, no doubt due to the fact that my night's sleep had been somewhat cut off by this kid. He looked down at his feet and I could hear him sigh; however, too unaware and tired to apologize for my tone, I continued, "But who are you? I can't just… you know… let you in."

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Henry Jones, but people call me Indiana. Indy. Because Henry is my dad, not me. Well, and me. Too. Also. It gets really… oh. Sorry. Does Abner live here?" It was obvious that this was the kind of guy who really knew how to get to the point. (that's called sarcasm, for all you "slow" folks out there who are SNOOPING IN MY DIARY)

For having just flown in from Paris, this guy had a lot of energy, or maybe nerves. Maybe he was just overly polite. "It's his house, if that's what you mean," I replied coldly. Let's just say that my dad doesn't exactly spend a lot of time being, you know, a dad. I removed the chain from the door and opened it a little more, trying to get a better look at the chap's shadow and fedora hat-obscured face. Hearing the door open, he looked up again, and the light from inside suddenly – it's hard to think of a good word for it – it just illuminated him. The kid – hardly a kid, he looked mid to late 20s – had these soft grey-blue eyes, tanned skin, and thick brown hair, some of which came in the form of a major 5 o'clock shadow. He kind of looked like a Greek statue, except not as perfect—not chiseled so much as, for lack of a better phrase, roughly hewn, but still smooth and stony if you didn't look too closely. "Jones, was it?" I asked, opening the door a little wider and putting down the large black umbrella I'd been planning on using in self-defense. "You seem alright, I guess. Come on in."

"Thanks a bunch," he took a deep breath, reminding me of my father walking in the door after a long trip to God knows where. "Thanks, uhhh…"

"Marion," I replied and crossed my arms, suddenly and painfully aware of how underdressed I was, in a faded grey nightdress and no shoes. "Marion Ravenwood… you know, not to be rude or anything, but are you an archaeologist? You can't be over…"

"Twenty-seven."

"Oh. Oh, that's nice. Did you go to school at…" I would've said "UoC" if he hadn't cut me off.

"…University of Chicago. Just got my doctorate in archaeology. Your dad was my advisor. I've actually been abroad the past couple years, but…" he trailed off, seeming unable to focus on his story. "Our dads are old friends," he concluded simply.

I nodded, understanding how important networking and legacies are in today's academic world. Excusing myself briefly and awkwardly, I shuffled into my room to grab some sort of robe, settling on the blue satin one (not warm, but very comfortable otherwise) hanging from the bedpost and calling, "Abner's not here right now, actually. He's, uh, off at some conference in Springfield or somewhere for the weekend." Okay, maybe not the best thing to tell the muscular 27-year-old that you just let in to the house, no matter how nice he seems. "You… you want coffee or something?"

There was a momentary pause before he called back, "If it's not imposing, I guess that would be great. Yeah, thank you."

When I re-emerged from my room, several things had changed—Indy had moved into the kitchen, and a beat-up leather jacket and brown fedora hat were now hanging on the coat rack by the front door. I followed him into the predominantly linoleum room and leaned against the doorframe, watching him sit down tiredly, take a look around, and then finally meet my eyes. A shock suddenly ran through me—not the really visible kind that gives you the shivers and makes you do some sort of weird, spastic body roll, but the kind where you suddenly breathe in because you've forgotten how to do it normally, where you feel paralyzed (mostly in the eyes), but in a good way. It was a soft, blue-grey shock. Briefly, I wondered if he'd had a piercing hazel shock… no, no way. I snapped out of it after a few moments of shock absorbing (again, for lack of a better term), blinked, and walked slowly towards the pot of cold coffee sitting on the stove.

"You, uh, okay if I just reheat some stuff from this morning? I mean yesterday morning. Right. Yesterday."

"Course," he replied, and I could've sworn he smiled a little bit under all that exhaustion. Having set the pot up to warm, I sat down from him across the table, looking awkwardly back and forth between him, the coffee pot, and my feet. He was the one to break the silence after about two and a half very long minutes.

"It's nice to meet you, Marion Ravenwood." He stuck out a callused hand, which I took with my own soft, pale one (the very one my dad insists is a writer's hand).

"Likewise, Indiana Jones. I mean that."

As I write this, he's snoring (yeah, believe it, this guy can really snore) in the guest bedroom across the hall from mine.

It's six in the morning now, and I really want to go to bed.

Adios,  
Marion


	3. June 16, 1926

**June 16, 1926**

**11 a.m.**

I can say one thing for Indiana Jones: he knows how to show a girl a good time. Plus (ok, so maybe two things), he just keeps on giving me things to write about. Abner would be proud.

He slept all through yesterday, the poor kid, and as far as I can tell, all through last night too. There were a couple points when I wished for his sake that the guest bed was a little softer, but if he felt the same way, he never bothered complaining.

Fast forward to 9 o'clock this morning. By the time I forced myself out of bed and into the kitchen, Jones had already shaved (and what a difference it made! I'm not gonna lie, this is one attractive archaeologist. Not that I'd ever be interested in one of my dad's students or anything like that), dressed in khakis and a fresh linen shirt, and begun scrambling a pan full of eggs on the gas stove; two cups of coffee already sat on the wood table in the center of the room.

"Oh, Jones," I muttered, leaning against the doorframe, "you know this is totally unnecessary." He just smiled and turned off the burner.

"Don't expect too much of this whole 'cooking' deal, sweetheart," Indy chuckled, and I almost lost my balance when he looked up and smiled at me. "It's just… thanks for not kicking me to the curb the other night." It was my turn to laugh.

"Eh," I shrugged, taking a seat at the table and grinning idiotically as he put a plate of beautifully cooked eggs down on my place setting. "It helps that you're cute." A moment of awkwardness hung in the air, but a couple of dismissive smirks and the smell of fresh coffee quickly swept it away—nevertheless, something funny happened in my stomach when I realized that he wasn't responding, you know, awkward or rudely or anything like that. Maybe he'd forget the age difference and… no, stop it Ravenwood. And as if it's not bad enough that he's ten years my senior, he's friends/colleagues/whatever with my dad. Talk about awkward. In an attempt to keep the conversation moving, I continued, "So, what brings you and my father together?"

"Nothing spectacular. Actually, a couple tablets were found at a dig in Cyrene – you know, that Greek site in Libya – that may help us pinpoint the location of a set of very important scrolls. No one's sure yet, but," his face seemed to light up a little, "maybe… maybe even some of those lost in the fire at Alexandria." His excitement was almost infectious, and I found myself leaning forward slightly, almost as if trying to soak it up, brighten my own day. "Unfortunately," he added, his eyes losing some of their shine, they're inscribed in a weird dialect of ancient Greek, some blend of classical Greek and Middle Kingdom Egyptian, weird right? Anyways…"

"No, wait, let me guess." This sounded familiar, like a fairytale told one too many times that eventually transformed itself into a dull, throbbing nightmare. It was a story I'd heard countless times from every puzzled archaeologist that stepped through the doors of my father's classroom, or, in this case, our home. "One of my dad's pet languages, right?"

Indy nodded slowly, sensing my resentment. He ran a hand through freshly rinsed, light brown hair and kept his eyes lowered to the plate before him. Realizing that I really couldn't blame him for my father's choices, I softened my own tone a little.

"Just… do me a favor, Jones?" He looked up, and I felt the same blue-grey shock as the last time we'd both been in the kitchen. "Don't keep him away too long. It's not easy having a dad who spends more time in the past than in the present." The air in the room got somewhat heavier, and before Indy even said anything, I knew that a bond had been formed.

"Trust me, I understand having an absent dad. After my mom died," zap! Another bond, "my dad just buried himself in the Grail…" Henry Jones! The Grail expert from Princeton my dad was used to talk about. I hadn't even made the connection. "Here's to the Holy goddamn Grail," Indy concluded bitterly, lifting his mug above the table.

"To the Ark of the Covenant."

Clink.

Another bond.

The hot coffee burned my throat, but it didn't matter.

"So, Indiana Jones. How well do you know Chicago?"

* * *

**June 16, 1926**

**10 p.m. (aka later that day)**

Like I said, he knows how to show a girl a good time, especially on a cloudy day. Figuratively speaking, of course… it was actually great outside. Lots of sun, light breeze, a couple of those giant puffy clouds. Long story made relatively short, Indy and I took the grand tour of the city, each of us exploring and showing off our own little corners of the city.

I took him to Shiner Beach, this tiny alcove on Lake Michigan that Frankie Costa and I named after an unfortunate 7th grade baseball game involving inexperienced pitchers and resulting in several black eyes. Indy, in turn, gave me a tour of the shady area just north of the university; "Big Jim" Colosimo's Restaurant, where he'd worked his way through his first two years of school as a waiter, the lakeside warehouses where he and Elliot Ness had their first encounter with Al Capone's early crew, and even the downtown speakeasy where he'd played a set with famed jazz clarinetist Sidney Bichet.

Needless to say, I was blown out of the water by everything this guy had said and done in a mere 23 years, and this was only one city! I haven't asked yet, but Indy must have a thousand stories like nothing I've ever heard.

Love at first sight is impossible—I don't even know what love is, what it feels like, but what I felt today as we walked around the city for who knows how many hours seemed pretty close. It was as if just being near him made me feel more real, more alive, and more terribly confused than I've ever been. And when we'd touch… It was that feeling like when you finally let go of a rubber band that you've been stretching for hours and days and years, you feel the tension snap and the fibers collide and everything relaxes, and you know things are the way they should be. Remember those bonds I was talking about, those common threads? Every time we'd touch, accidentally or otherwise (I like to think that it was mostly otherwise), it was as if they suddenly became infinitely more tangible and complex.

My name is Marion-Claire Ravenwood, and about 36 hours ago, I became acquainted with Indiana Jones.

My name is Marion-Claire Ravenwood, and it's entirely possible that I'm falling in love with Indiana Jones.

Is that even possible? Help!

Love,

Marion


	4. June 20, 1926

**June 20, 1926**

Sorry for not writing for – lemme check – four days. Can't believe it's already Tuesday. Oh, well I guess that's not too bad, considering that until this month, I'd gone about four years without putting anything non-academic on paper. (Pardon me while I pat myself on the back…)

Dad got back from that conference in Springfield way early this morning. What is it with men and disturbing the restful? Indy, as usual, slept soundly through the clatter of my dad slipping on the summer rain-soaked front steps, grabbing on to the doorbell for support, and fooling around with his keys before finally swinging open the door and pretty much falling through onto the carpet, luggage and all. It was inspired. Neither of us really being up for conversation, there was a hug and a kiss, and maybe brief greeting, but we both headed off to our respective rooms within about two minutes of his appearance.

I had no idea that anthropology seminars were so… _draining_.

He, of course, had been expecting the honorable Henry "Indiana" Jones, Jr. to show up all along (and, catch this, he's staying for the summer before heading back of to Libya… still trying to decide if this is good or bad). Why he didn't bother warning me, I'm not sure, but that's beside the point.

Things really changed between me and Indy once my dad got back—I haven't been updating in here, so maybe there's a little bit of catching up to do. Remember how I wrote that maybe I might be falling in love? Ok, so that might be official. He's AMAZING, and that's not a description I use lightly. His stories, his perspective, his unfailing humanity, and (oh God) his eyes—they're all like pieces of his amazing-ness. Christ, I must sound ridiculous. The best part is, I don't care at all. What does that mean?

Anyways. Like I said, things changed, but I never told you what from! This is ALSO going to sound really ridiculous, but Girl Scout's honor that every word is true:

We've spent, more or less, all day of every day out or in doing something together. On Saturday, we made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to take to one of those pebbly beaches on the lake. It wasn't so nice out; some big rain clouds were up north a little bit and the wind was blowing like CRAZY. That whole thing didn't really work out, except for the really super sweet part where he gave me his hat (remember that fedora I mentioned?) to keep my hair from blowing everywhere. We talked, a lot, because he is so easy to talk to about pretty much anything… that took up most of the afternoon, I guess. Not really exciting (for you, I mean). That night though, we went to see a super-late showing (midnight! I'd never be out that late if Abner was home) of "The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe" up at the Bijou Dream Theater—that was when he put his arm around me. No lie! Really! We were just sitting there in those decrepit red chairs, eating peanuts (which I don't actually like that much, but they were his idea so I just decided to go for it) and watching the movie, and suddenly I realize that his arm's been over the back of my chair for, I dunno, half an hour. I don't think I paid much attention to the movie after that – don't get the wrong idea – but I tensed up a little and looked over at him, which I think he saw, because then suddenly his arm was gone. Not what I meant to do!

I don't want to bore the living shit out of you with details about Sunday. In a nutshell: slept in, ditched church (not that Abner and I ever go anyways since Mom died), ate pancakes, spent the whole day at the Fields Museum, letting Indy lecture about the supposedly obvious similarities between ancient Paganism and modern Christianity… it was pretty easy to follow, but I think I've forgotten most of it at this point. Something about somebody ripping somebody else off like 500 years after they said or wrote something or other. Yeah, that's it.

Yesterday was as lazy as a rainy summer day (guess those northern rain clouds decided to follow through with Saturday's threats) could possibly be, and I mean that. We sat in my dad's library, which is the nicest room in the house, and read ALL DAY. I felt so good afterwards—reading three books in one day can make a person feel pretty accomplished. Indy read three also… granted, none of his were in modern English. Ugh. Somebody give me a reason NOT to want him, please. This is going to kill me someday. I just know it. I'm going to die of blue-grey shock… every time I looked up from _Candide_ (a great book, by the way), he'd be looking at me in this way that I still don't totally understand. It was intense, but I could tell that it was trying not to be—maybe it was more curious than anything. Either way, even when I'd catch Indy staring or searching or whatever guys like him do… it wasn't creepy or intimidating at all, not even when he'd refused to look back down at his book for I don't even know how long, because it didn't feel like nearly long enough. And all I can do is keep telling myself that we're logical people, that this is all in my head, that I'm just some lovestruck girl seeing things that she shouldn't, wanting to do things (with a certain archaeologist) that she shouldn't. Can't. God, I hate that word.

Told you things changed when Pops got home. As soon as things start to take some kind of shape, Professor Ravenwood walks through the door and suddenly we're all business. "So, have you two been getting to know each other?" That was an awkward breakfast. Thankfully, all I had to do was ask some vague question about the conference and the atmosphere took a dramatic swing towards musty books and lectures that reeked of mundanity.

Indy and I haven't spoken a word all day. Does this mean he feels it too? What is "it"?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I hate this! I also hate that at the same time, I probably wouldn't trade it for the world.

Sorry to sign-off at such a weird place in the story, but I've got some thinking to do, and I've got this feeling like my brain's going to be moving so fast that I won't be able to get the words down quickly enough to say anything coherent.

Good night (and good luck to me),

Marion


	5. June 25, 1926

**June 25, 1926**

So generally I'm not a big fan of mirrors, make-up, formalwear, that kind of fun stuff. Apparently and fortunately, my mother didn't feel the same way, so when Abner abruptly "reminded" Indy and I (truth was, he'd never actually told us in the first place) about a University of Chicago banquet in the honor of a close friend, Dr. Oxley, there was an 18th century standing mirror, a surprisingly intact cosmetics collection from some time in the early 1910s, and a beaded yellow dress I'd never seen before in my life all waiting for me to take reluctant advantage of.

Of course, he suggested Indy take me as a date—"don't want to be feeling left out of all the grown-ups," he teased, utterly oblivious to the uncomfortable shifting and grimaces on both sides. I can tell you one thing, of all the dates I've ever been on, it has never taken me as long to get ready as it did tonight. Christ, I don't know what happened in the two hours Indy insists I was preparing in my room. So all right, maybe I put a little extra and much needed effort into taming my hair into some semblance of curliness, and maybe there was a little more stuff around my eyes than usual, but I refuse to believe it took two hours to get ready. There's just no way.

Dad had to leave early for the banquet in order to set up or suck up or do something professor-like to impress the early birds, leaving Indy alone with a borrowed tuxedo and me feeling both awkward and determined to impress. It was about 5 o'clock, and we were becoming pressed for time, since the walk to the Field Museum, whose banquet room was being rented out for the night, was about half an hour, and we were supposed to be there in twenty minutes, more or less.

"Marion!" came a muffled voice from downstairs. I rolled my eyes, adding the finishing touches to my lipstick (never again, I tell you) and fastening a set of my mother's pearls, which I was wearing at Dad's suggestion. Normally I'd let go of or even openly scoff at one of his fashion ideas, but I know the sentimental value those pearls hold for both of us, and it wasn't such a big request after all. Grabbing a bag, any bag, and slipping on a pair of random black heels, I rushed out of the room and muttered under my breath, something about men and getting dressed. Maybe how they should put a little more effort into it, make looking at them easier on the rest of us? I don't even remember. What I do remember was the look on Indy's face when I practically fell out of my bedroom door and onto the upper staircase landing. At first, I could've sworn he was mocking me—his eyebrows shot up and he looked like he was about to gag. In retrospect, he'd probably just lost his breath (if I may say so myself, haha). I regained some composure and began walking down the stairs as gracefully as is possible in heels on hardwood – not gonna lie, I definitely almost fell down the fourth to bottom step. Ladies and gentlemen, crisis averted. Making my way down to the foyer, I made sure never to take my eyes of Indy; not sure why, maybe it was just to take sure he did me the same courtesy, and he definitely did. Whatever girly time consumption-related insult he'd been about to throw died before he even got the first syllable out, and all he could come up with was, "Christ, Marion. You look… ready to go." He shook his head slightly, and I guess that probably wasn't what he'd been planning to say.

(Does this make me sound arrogant? Or vain? I don't want to sound arrogant or vain, but this is my diary, so I suppose I have a right… oh, but still! This isn't easy, folks. Try writing about yourself every day and not being either super self-deprecating or super-narcissistic. Struggle!)

"Nice save, Jones," I smirked. "And uh… nice tux. No hat tonight?"

He smiled slightly, recovering from previous flusterationedness (new word, add it to the dictionary) and holding out his arm. "Shall we, Miss Ravenwood?" Indy asked, feigning a pretentious British accent.

"Mr. Jones, I'd be nothing short of delighted," I replied in kind, looping my arm through his and grinning what I now realize must've been idiotically.

The walk there was, how you say, pleasant enough. Our arms remained looped for the whole half an hour (turns out we were a little late after all, but there is no way that's my fault), but chances are it was because no one wanted to deal with the awkwardness of trying to justify unlinking them. Does that make sense? Because it only vaguely makes sense in my head, so I pray dearly for your poor logic-maker. Dinner in and of itself was also, I suppose, pleasant enough, at least as pleasant as these high-brow intellectual functions can be for a detached teenager and her wannabe-intellectual date. I'm joking about that part, I guess—he really is intellectual, but fortunately he's not quite experienced or intelligent enough to spend a whole night subtly bragging about medals and honors, criticizing and debunking each theory put forth at the table, or acting too old for his age in general. The age that I continue to remind myself is still ten years greater than my own. Ten years, Marion. For the love of vodka and humanity! My father stood up about half way through the meal, obviously tipsy, and fervently insisted on toasting Indy's arrival; a "future face of archaeology," he said. A "prodigy who doesn't know he's a prodigy." If Indy didn't know that before tonight, I'm pretty sure he does now.

I noticed something about him over the course of dinner and conversation, something that I'm surprised never really hit me before, and that's how genuinely curious Indiana is. Over the course of one meal, he must've asked each of the scholars present at least nine or ten or eleven questions apiece in their different fields, and each one was more interesting and insightful than the last. And then, when he'd get a satisfactory answer, he'd just smile so genuinely that he looked like a six-year-old. His happiness was just that pure, it amazed me, and now I get exactly why he's going to make such an awesome archaeologist.

After four of red wine, more or less, I told him, "You're a very good person, Indjana Jhones…" (indication of slight slurring going on here) "I'm proud've you and look up t'you." At hearing this, an equally intoxicated Indy replied,

"Marion! Oh, Marion, thank you! That is… that is just so nice of you to say! Really! Wow…" He grinned, and it was adorable. I grinned, and it was embarrassing.

By midnight, I can say with confidence that the entire table was utterly sloshed. Gone were the refined discussions of the palaeolimnological evidence of late-Holocene settlement and abandonment in northern Guatemala, out came the enthusiastically (and somewhat chaotically) recited stories of adventures on the high seas, in the Great War, in the deepest depths of the Amazon rain forest, and on the scorching Arabian deserts. Indy told his fair share, including a recount of his days riding with Pancho Villa, spying in Turkish strongholds under the command of close friend T.E. Lawrence, workings with pioneering humanitarian, philosopher, and doctor Albert Schweitzer, and seduction by infamous German spy Mata Hari (not going to lie, that one made me a little jealous). I made some sort of remark about it, can't pretend that I was sober enough to remember exactly what it was, but Indy suddenly gave me this odd look, like he suddenly knew something that I didn't, before turning back to the table and telling another story. This time, it was about how he and is wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, blah blah blah girlfriend from New Jersey, name was Nancy I think, did blah blah blah to save blah blah blah and something involving Thomas Edison.

"Indiana," I clearly remember saying, "none of us wants to hear about your stupid adolescent love life, so save it for…" that was when I realized that, chances were that as the youngest and only girl at the large table, I was in fact the only one who didn't want to hear about his sexual and romantic exploits. This look crossed Indy's face like he'd just won something; I refused to believe it was me. Interesting fact: I get flushed really easily, if it's a little too hot out or if something just a little embarrassing happens, my cheeks get red kind of quickly—it's unfortunate in situations like this, but true and inevitable. When I realized that my entire face suddenly felt much hotter than it had 10 seconds before, I stood up abruptly and stated in what must've been extremely false and affected-sounding, "Gentlemen, Dad, this has been a wonderful dinner. Almost all of you are remarkable scholars and companions, and I wish you the best—it's late, however, and I'm feeling somewhat faint, so I'm going to go – yes, Dad, I know I shouldn't be walking on the streets this late, I'm going to call a cab – and get some sleep." Smiling graciously, I grabbed my clutch, shawl, and exited the room a little too hastily, almost tripping on my heels as I crossed the threshold of the giant oak doors.

Once outside, I stopped and put my hand on the cold metal railing, taking in a deep breath of warm Chicago air. Maybe he'd follow me. Maybe he'd apologize for being such an ass. Maybe it had nothing to do with me, and I was overreacting based on attraction and alcohol. Maybe if I counted to five, that'd give him time to come to his senses, rush out the door, and plant one on me. Five… four… three… two… one…

The door burst open and I turned to see Indy rushing out of it, stumbling somewhat awkwardly—even if his mind had recovered from drinking, it was obvious his feet still had their work cut out for them. But instead of apologetic and enamored, he looked annoyed. My heart sank a little bit when he caught up to me with an irritated look on his face.

"What the hell was that? Marion, you just embarrassed me in front of…"

"In front of who?" I interjected. "A group of stodgy old professors who will probably all have forgotten your name by the time they wake up tomorrow morning?" He looked frustrated and somewhat affronted, and I admit that I felt a little bad. Just a little, though. "What did you think you were doing anyhow, Jones? We both know that was not the time or place to talk about… what you were talking about!" I almost yelled, just managing to keep my voice at a loud whisper when I realized that we were a potential show for the late night strollers on the other side of the avenue.

"What was I talking about? For the love of humanity, I was telling a goddamn story!" he shouted in reply, obviously missing my hints towards subtlety and throwing his arms in the air. I shook my head fervently, frowning.

"Yeah?" Also known as the best I could come up with.

"Yeah! Jesus, Marion, stop acting like a such a child!"

"Seventeen. Seventeen!" I yelled, matching his volume. "I am a child, you idiot! Or haven't. You. Noticed," I slowed down emphatically, sneering as I tried not to look teary or anything stupid like that. He looked a little taken aback. Apparently he hadn't noticed. "I'm going home, Indiana. Go back to dinner and make sure those lovely old gentlemen remember your name." Bringing everything back into focus, I realized that Indy and I were now mere inches apart. I lifted my chin somewhat to try and match his height, closed my eyes briefly to feel the metaphorical electricity crackling, and gave a simple, "Good night," before turning and making my way carefully down the damp brick steps towards the street. A few moments later, I heard the door slam, and I turned around to see that Indy had retreated back into the restaurant. Honestly, I'd really been hoping he'd follow me again. Thing is, I'm still not sure whether I was trying to get him to follow me or if I actually wanted to be left alone.

Looking up at the large clock on the street corner and grimaced. It was past one o'clock in the morning, no way were there going to be any cabs heading to my neighborhood at this late hour (or early, depending on your perspective). I reluctantly began the walk home, too proud to go back in to dinner, too angry to even consider swallowing said pride, and too distracted to notice the shadow slipping out from behind a parked car. Suddenly, I was up against the wall – bricks, it fucking hurt, not to mention there was a damn large hand pinning both of mine behind me and what I recognized as a small hunting/skinning knife (ewww) to my throat. There was a horrible smell… alcohol breath and body odor, and it was all I could do not to gag right there. Gangster? I thought not. They were classier than this, and usually hat nice guns or some shit like that. This guy was one of your every day, run-of-the-mill thugs… I would've felt bad for the poor slob if he hadn't been about to murder or rape me or whatever the hell his plans were. Keep your cool, I internally scolded myself on the brink of a mindless breakdown. Think, Marion, stay cool. Stay cool, Ravenwood. Come on, you can get out of this.

"Pretty things should not wander Chicago streets at night," he muttered, idiotically releasing the one hand he'd had control over for the sake of touching my hair. I kid you not. Talk about being a real dumbass… Anyways, while he got distracted by the pretty shiny things, I moved my hand into my clutch bag, where I usually kept a Swiss army knife. I fumbled with the clasp for a few seconds before realizing that there was a better course of action—long explanation short, it would've involved the making of contact between my right knee and his only crotch, had a third figure not suddenly joined the scene, shooting across my peripheral vision and slamming into this nameless thug. The spontaneous jolt, of course, almost caused the knife he'd been holding at my jugular to dig right in, and it probably would have if I hadn't moved my hand there instead—on the downside, that caused a thick red line to suddenly appear across the back of my four left fingers, extending from the middle of the pinky to the middle of my pointer finger. The pain didn't really become noticeable for a few seconds, not until I realized that my attacker was on his back, and my "savior"s fist was making consistent and rapid contact with his face.

"Indy!" I gasped, surprised, kicking the knife down the sidewalk before pulling Indiana off the larger man, who now lay whimpering and weaponless on the pavement.

"We should call the… call the…" he took long, ragged breaths. "…cops."

"The cops in this town are about as useful as… they're really useless," I concluded lamely, breathing in a similar manner. No idea how it happened, but within a second my purse and shawl were on the ground and I'd pretty much glued myself to Indy, my arms around his neck and my face in his shoulder. "Indy, you… you saved… he almost…" Suddenly, the pain from the gash in my hand became apparent, and I drew back, hitting him across the face impulsively. "You almost just got me killed!" I reprimanded, shaking my bloody hand in his face. "That was almost my neck, Indiana Jones! What were you thinking?!"

The thug stirred a little bit, so the two of us grabbed my things and began a brisk walk down the street towards my house (at this point only a block and a half away), starting a new argument as if the last one had never ended.

"Got you killed?!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You're ridiculous, Marion! I might've just saved your life!"

Scoffing, I replied, "I had everything perfectly under control."

"You did not," he retorted, and I shrugged.

"Well, I was about to!" We stopped in front of my lawn and turned to face each other. "If you'd like, I can give an example of my methods," I threatened, eyes moving between my knee and his crotch.

"Listen, Ravenwood," he replied boldly, though I swear he took a little step back at hearing my threat, "I'm sorry about that potential little cut, but if you don't mind, a 'thank you' might be appropriate right now!" His voice jumped a register as he said this last part, and I felt my shoulders sink a little towards the sidewalk.

"Let's go inside," I murmured, leading the way to the front door and unlocking it deftly, moving into the perfectly temperature-controlled foyer and turning once again to face the young man. "I guess… thanks, Indiana," my comment went directed towards the bench where my awkwardly tuxedo'd friend had just collapsed. A thought occurred, "Wait. Didn't you go back to dinner?"

He nodded slowly, explaining, "Your dad was nervous. He asked me to follow you, I guess now I know why, huh?"

"My dad asked you," I repeated, unable to mask my disappointment. "You know… if he could not find out about this…"

"Marion, your father deserves to know."

"If he knows, he'll never let me out of his sight." Bullshit. He'd keep me in the house for a week, get distracted by some new discovery halfway across the globe, and jet off at the most convenient moment.

"For good reason, damnit! That could've been really bad, Marion." He stood and made his way towards me, stopping when we were less than a foot apart. I blinked slowly, refusing to say anything stupid (aka nice), refusing to may eye contact and succumb to that blue-grey shock. I could feel the expectant silence fill what space was left between us, but my lips stayed determinedly pursed. "Fine, forget it. Do whatever you want, see if I fucking care anymore. Good night." With that, he moved deftly past me and into his room. Hearing the door close (and lock), I lifted my eyes and stared blankly for what must've been a whole minute at my own closed door at the top of the stairs.

See if I care anymore, he'd said.

Anymore.

Well, at least he cared at one point.

At least… at least he's one less thing I have to worry about now. Yeah, that's good. That's a good thing.

Yeah.

Ambivalently yours,

Marion


	6. June 29, 1926

**June 29, 1926**

I am truly a bad person. There's just no getting around it at this point.

Remember Burt Dines, that nice boy that I turned down a date with in favor of writing in this stupid thing? Well, I learned something about him today.

Burt Dines is an excellent kisser… he looks the part: tall and broad-shouldered with typically Aryan blue eyes and blonde hair, which is lucky for both of us, because I could never bring myself to shamelessly use someone I didn't actually find attractive. (Where o where has my moral compass gone?)

He asked me out to the lake again yesterday afternoon, and his timing in doing so could not have been more impeccable. Not only did the call interrupt a painfully silent lunch with Indy and Abner (both of whom understood within 30 seconds what the call was about), it provided a way of hitting two birds with one goddamn pebble when I got both a pleasantly distracting reason to leave the house and a good look at the strained and utterly livid expression on Indy's face. The two of us hadn't spoken since the night before – my father noticed this, of course, but he wasn't stupid enough to say anything – and I was determined not to ruin my silent streak.

In the long-standing tradition of making men jealous of other men for no particular or apparent reason (even though everybody knows there's a reason that nobody really knows, or something like that), I made a show of getting ready, using the full length mirror in the foyer to look at various skirts and dresses as opposed to the one in my room (eventually deciding on a dark blue and white knee-length sheath and white pumps), making what I maintain was an expert picnic lunch in the kitchen where Indy still sat like a gargoyle, and essentially acting more like a girl than I could ever remember. It was fun, in a weird way… so much for never spending time getting ready. This was justified!

Burt showed up at about five o'clock, dressed in a Princeton sweater and khakis. His smile was warm and he looked genuinely happy to see me, and I could remember why I'd liked him for so long, but there was no point in denying that he had nothing on my Indiana.

"Marion," he said sweetly when I opened the door, grinning like the All-American he was. "You look beautiful."

I sighed, having forgotten what it was like for a guy to actually say how he felt. "Thanks Burt, you look…"

"A little old for you, don't you think?" came a familiar voice from behind me, and I turned to see a disgruntled Indy standing in the middle of the hall, one of his eyebrows lifted. ("Coming from you, Jones? That's rich," I wanted to retort, but I think the incredulous look on my face said it all.) His voice was teasing on the surface, but there was venomous subtext that I did not want to be in the middle of. Burt didn't seem to quite catch on, thank God. "Henry Jones," said Indy, moving forward to shake Burt's hand civilly, though his arm looked definitely tensed. "I'm staying here as a…"

"He's a old student of my father's," I cut in rapidly, shooting a glare at the boy behind me and stepping onto the front porch with my date. "Come on, Burt, let's go before we lose too much light, ok?" My voice got suddenly sweet, and Burt, although wary of the seemingly angry, dashing, hobo-esque archaeology student in the hallway, smiled politely and agreed. We left Indy, ever the gentleman but obviously frustrated, fuming in the doorway with is half-cocked smile and mechanical wave good bye.

About a block and a half down the road, Burt suddenly turned to me and asked point-blank, "Does he like you?"

I stopped in my tracks. Princeton educated, I thought—this guy obviously wasn't stupid. "Not sure," I replied honestly, turning to face him after recovering from the slight shock of being asked so bluntly about Indy. Apprehension filled Burt's face, and I knew that his next question would be much harder to answer, so I took action, cutting him off by adding, "I hope not. Talk about being too old for me? The guy's 27." I knew the rate at which all this was coming out might seem suspicious to some, but Burt seemed to be satisfied, at least for the time being. There was a moment of silence before I hooked my arm through his and reminded him, "We're on a date, remember? Let's talk about something else."

He smiled in response and seemed to have no trouble moving on to the topic of Princeton life. Princeton, I wondered. The word tickled some memory in the back of my head. Wasn't that where Indy's dad was a professor? Yeah, medieval studies, I realized, smiling and nodding at whatever Burt happened to be saying. Poor guy. So cute, so smart, only to be used by a 17-year-old as an attractive distraction from the real world. I am a terrible person.

By the time we made it to the lake, I knew all about freshman hazing at Princeton—some of it amusing, some of it not so much. I knew about the late night snowball fights, the naked strike that had apparently caused something of a ruckus in the West dorms last February, and the striking beauty (not to mention usefulness) of the campus library. It was a nice day out – surprisingly calm – so setting up a quilt about twenty feet from the shoreline of Lake Michigan didn't come with the hazards it normally does. I took out the turkey sandwiches I'd made earlier and handed one to Burt, who accepted heartily and dug in. Though not extremely hungry, I made an effort to at least make it look like I had a healthy appetite (don't get me wrong, normally I do) and no sense of remorse about what I was doing here instead of making amends with Indy for the past night's unpleasant turn of events.

About twenty minutes into my second silent lunch of the day (although this one was admittedly much more pleasant and relaxed), the air between the two of us began to change—I felt it getting a little thicker, more tangible and a little electric, though most of that was coming from him. Glancing up at Burt after a sip of lemonade, I realized that his eyes had been focused intently on my for a least a minute… maybe two. He had this look in them, a look that recently I've found myself all too familiar with, and I knew what was going to happen next. Suddenly (but not before glancing briefly around to make sure no one was in seeing range), he leaned in and kissed me. Hard. On the mouth. While there wasn't a lot of passion or sparks or anything like that, I'm not going to lie and say that it wasn't nice to be well-kissed after a few weeks of ulcerous inner conflict.

Before I knew it, I was leaning in to him, my hands at his shoulders while he pushed the empty picnic basket out from in between us and pulled me to him. For a minute, I pretended it was Indy, but then I realized how terribly unfair that was and reminded myself that it was Burt I was being so sweetly kissed by. Keep in mind, that since the beginning of this train of thought, the kiss was still going.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, smiling as he ran his hands up and down my back soothingly, one hand moving to my waist and the other to tug on the curls at the ends of my hair.

Pulling back momentarily, I asked, "Did you know this was going to happen?" He shrugged, nodding slightly. Cocky bastard, I thought, though that would've been a serious moment killer if it'd actually slipped out vocally. He pulled me back to him again, kissing me a little harder this time and leaning back on the blanket. Moral compass, I told myself. Moral compass! Revenge with benefits, unfortunately, seemed like a much better idea at the time.

Needless to say, the kissing continued for a good long time. I'm not totally comfortable writing down the details, even if… to Hell with it. What I'm trying to say is: put some ice on it, we only kissed. After a three-hour combination of wave-running, kissing, idle conversation, and deciding exactly how I was going to break the news to Burt and Indy (that we couldn't keep seeing each other and that we had to start, respectively), we finally decided that a sufficient lack of light meant it was time to head home. Not 23 minutes and obvious avoidance of hand-holding on my part later, we were back at the front doorstep where we'd begun this surprising, remorse-ridden, and (hopefully) meaningless date.

"I… I…" at a sudden loss for words, I resorted to, "I had a great time. Thank you."

Burt smiled slightly in response and raised a hand to brush my cheek. A flash of curtain caught the corner of my eye and I knew Indy was watching from inside the house, possibly to make sure we didn't have a repeat of my street encounter the night previous. I had a feeling it was less alarmist and more personal than that.

"We should do this again some time," he murmured. Damn. I'd been afraid he was going to say that. Grimacing, I figured I should tell him the truth, or at least the message that telling the real truth would've conveyed.

"Listen, Burt, I… today was fun. You're a good guy, and I like you, but…" Wracking my brain for a common, easily defendable excuse, I finally came up with, "but you're going back to Princeton at the end of the summer. I'll still be in high school over here, and the thing is… I'm just afraid to get too involved or attached, you know?"

I braced myself for his cold good-bye, an angry outburst, or something like that, but instead he just shook his head and grinned, saying, "It's just summer, Marion. I'll call you, I promise." With that, he leaned down to kiss my nose (my nose? Seriously?) and left without another word.

Somehow, I'm not entirely sure the message got across.

By the time I'd collected myself enough to turn around and clarify the point, he'd already disappeared down the block. I felt a weight growing in the pit of my stomach and became acutely aware of how utterly stupid I was being, how I wished it was possible to take back all of my actions from the day, right back to picking up the goddamn phone. It was like the little pieces of guilt that'd been building up inside of me all day suddenly coalesced and became one giant lump of regret. How could I be so STUPID? Seriously… there was no way anything good could come of this, people would get hurt, humiliated, annoyed, all this really bad stuff that I didn't want to happen was almost certainly going to! I still can't make coherent sense of the thoughts going through my head at that point, I just remember that it didn't feel good at all. It was nauseating, almost.

Shaking my head slowly to try and clear it before I braved the house where I knew Indy had been impatiently waiting to yell at me, kiss me, interrogate me in a manner worthy of the FBI, something that would only make things worse on one level or another, I took off my shoes (so that they wouldn't click on the wooden porch) and padded up to the door. The lights were off in the foyer, which made me a little curious—I paused just inside the door, holding the handle for support as a slight nausea gripped me still, a feeling I hoped would magically disappear in my sleep. Closing the door softly, I winced at the *click* of the lock falling into place. Still no movement from either Indy or my father. Maybe… maybe I'd get to bed in one piece.

I'd made it halfway up our thankfully carpeted staircase before a lamp flickered on at the bottom level, about six steps below me. I turned apprehensively and came face-to-face (kind of) with exactly what I'd feared would be here to meet me. The look on Indy's face was hauntingly blank, and I did my best to close off my own feelings (and their manifestation on my face) until this confrontation ended. Silence hung in the air for about five seconds as we tried to stare each other down, but I soon gave in.

"Henry," I tried to sound at least a little surprised, but of course failed miserably, instead merely sounding resigned. "I don't know what to say."

His features remained completely still as he ascended the staircase cautiously—I could tell this wasn't easy. When he reached my level, he placed the lamp down carefully, a couple steps above us. I moved back towards the rail slightly, trying to make room as I gauged exactly what he was doing. However stony he looked, though, I could tell there was definitely a lot going on underneath that he wasn't expressing or verbalizing. He just kept staring, and I felt totally powerless to alter the situation.

"Please say something," I pleaded quietly, that knot in my stomach tightening even further.

The next step in this interaction was obvious—he was going to kiss me, probably, and for the first time since we'd met I realized that was the last thing I wanted. Predictably enough, he took a few steps towards me, virtually pinning me to the banister. My breathing slowed and became more deliberate, since at that point I had to remind myself how to do it properly. Breathing, keeping my eyes open, and thinking straight were hard enough with the proximity between us, and then I realized that Indy'd been drinking a little. He leaned in further, moving a hand to my waist, where I admit it fit perfectly, and I was at a loss for what to do. The easiest thing was to go with it, but the right thing was to get out and to get out now.

"We can't do this," I murmured, and Indy gave me a slightly confused look. "He k… We kissed, Indy. Me and Burt. A lot," I blurted out, my hands gripping the railing behind me so hard that my knuckles had gone pale. I shut my eyes determinedly, not sure what to anticipate but knowing that I never deserved to speak to him again.

"You… what?" Suddenly, Indiana had no trouble verbalizing his thoughts as he snapped out of whatever alcohol- or lust-induced reverie he'd slipped into. "Say that again?"

"We kis…"

"I didn't actually want you to say it again!" he interrupted harshly, stepping back towards the wall. I had to be the calm one here; that was crucial.

"That's just it," I realized, and the differences between me and Indy suddenly became so apparent that they outweighed two weeks' worth of blue grey shocks and *zap* connections, I don't know how to describe them. "You say one thing, and you mean another. Do one thing, and the next thing you do is a giant contradiction! I can't keep reading the subtext, Indy, I…"

"That! You called that subtext? Me trying to kiss you is not subtext, Marion!"

"Quiet! You'll wake up Abner," I interjected, glaring at him, and the volume automatically lowered about four levels. Determined not to let this turn into another argument, I continued before he could, "I made a really big mistake today, Indy. A few really big mistakes, and I'm truly sorry. I honestly don't know what to say to you."

His face softened, and his posture slackened as he crumpled onto one of the stairs at my feet. I followed suit, but cautiously.

"I'm sorry, too," he muttered, and I smiled gratefully. "Is there… is there any way to fix this?"

Reluctantly (for fear of tackiness), I continued the metaphor. "Nothing's broken, I don't think." He chuckled, knowing how I felt about saying tacky stuff like that. "Friends?" I asked hesitantly, lifting an eyebrow and holding my hand out. I knew words couldn't overcome the tension, but it was worth a try at least. Indy seemed to agree, and he held his hand out as well, shaking mine gently as we both did our obvious best to ignore how simply good touching felt.

"Friends," Indy concluded.

And then we went to bed. Separately. On different floors of the house.

Just to clarify.

Tonight has probably been one of the least fulfilling, least satisfying of my life. It just isn't fair to make someone as undeserving (okay, maybe after my actions today I deserve some… what's it called? Karma?) as me deal with as arguably tough a situation as this. But that's life, I guess. And it'll keep going. Hopefully our conversation (the "friends" part) will make things a little easier from now on.

I'll check back in soon.

Love gone awry,

Marion


	7. July 7, 1926

**July 7, 1926, 6 a.m.**

Jump start! No intro! Let's get to the story! Yay!

Let me take you back to about 5:30 this morning. Thanks to one of my dad's early morning appearances yesterday and a night spent thinking into the wee hours of the morning, I would've preferred to spend a summer day such as this one in bed until I couldn't physically stand _not_ to move. But for some reason, I woke up this morning extremely suddenly, as if an alarm had gone off in my head… but an alarm that I couldn't hear? I dunno, it was/is weird. Outside, it's still stormy as we ever see it around here—dark, thick fog, rain pelting the window and whatnot, and I realize that I'm still dressed in the clothes I was wearing last night when I fell asleep at my desk: dark grey flannel boxers, a white undershirt, and a now somewhat wrinkled maroon pullover (gooooo UoC!). Checking briefly in the mirror to make sure that I didn't look like the living dead, I headed out into the living room, which is at the far end of the hall, through the kitchen. Our house is a little confusing; I won't waste time trying to explain that part of it.

So I'm expecting to be alone in the house, as usual, dad and Indiana off at the Field or the university or somewhere manly and archaic, and then I realize that the living room is glowing. In retrospect, it shouldn't have taken me as long as it did to figure out there was a fire going. (It was early! Cut a girl some slack.)

"Hello? Dad?" There was a shuffling of papers, and I turned the corner into the den just in time to see Indy stuffing a few pieces of loose-leaf paper under the armchair he'd obviously been writing in. Unaware that I'd seen him do so, Indy rearranged himself to look superficially casual, dressed in PJ's and a bathrobe with a cup of coffee in hand. The air tightened in my lungs—it was the first time we'd even been alone in the same room together since that late-night stairway conversation, which of course didn't help the situation at all. Unless you consider keeping us not only from arguing, but also from speaking and interacting altogether, helpful. Which I don't.

"Marion! Hey…" he exclaimed awkwardly, shifting. "What's, uh… what's got you up so early, huh?"

"God only knows," I rolled my eyes, trying hard to remain casual, taking a seat in the chair closest to the flames and deliberately failing to mention that I'd caught him in the act of… something or other. "Some psycho internal alarm clock out to ruin my sleep patterns, I guess. Where's Abner?"

"University board meeting. Said he's been keeping me too busy and that I should take the day off or something."

"Wow… beautiful weather for a day off, isn't it?" I asked sardonically and lifted an eyebrow, a perfectly timed lightning flash going off outside the window. There was a deep silence for somewhere around 10 seconds, and for the first time in a long time, I couldn't feel his eyes on me. Not at all. Not that I'd been looking to check, but I just knew they weren't. I knew. "Seven days," I said, turning to look squarely at him.

"What?"

"It's been seven days since we've had a real, decent, or in our case painfully awkward conversation, Indiana Jones, and quite frankly I'm sick of it. You are the first ever guest in this house under the age of 40, and I'm not going to pass up that kind of opportunity." Plus, I really miss talking to you, my inner voice urged me to say, but I think he knew anyways.

"You're right," he replied sheepishly. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of such honorable, exciting company." I smirked and turned towards the fire once more, hypnotized by its random rhythms and shifts. Fire's pretty. Anybody else catch the irony in my saying that?

"Likewise, Jones." I glanced up and caught his eye, which I noticed was almost bright again. It was funny… it feels like we've nearly forgotten what carefree normalcy feels like. How weird is that? It's not right. Within a few seconds, the reality of our position set in and he averted his eyes from mine sharply.

"Mare," said Indy quietly, and I winced at his use of such a childish nickname. "Marion," he repeated. "What are you trying to do? If the past couple weeks aren't proof enough, take my word for it: we can't be friends."

Needless to say, that threw me off more than a little.

"Of course we can be!" I argued, fighting the temptation to pout. "Listen, Indiana, I figure we're at a point where there's no harm in being straightforward, am I right?"

Whether or not he actually agreed, his apprehensive nod was enough to prompt me to continue.

"'Friends is worth a shot," I stated plainly. "The way things are going, it's not like we have much to lose if it doesn't work, you know?" Even as I said it, I knew how untrue it all was, and Indy knew it too—a million and one things could go wrong and cost us everything. But I was desperately clinging to whatever reason I could find that might keep him here another day.

"It's not going to work!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a move characteristic to most of his stressful moments. I shrank back into the chair a little, pulling my knees up and hugging them to my chest. A lump formed in my throat, and even though I knew for several reasons that crying wasn't an option, it was mighty alluring. Maybe he could tell, because suddenly the frustration subsided and he added, "You've gotta understand, Marion, I… I… you have no idea how difficult this is." LAME.

This time, I was the one to nod, though now I was staring intently out the window. I wondered if the brutal weather had shown up just for us, but then my thoughts drifted to the piece of paper he'd been so keen to hide when he realized I was awake.

"No, Indy, I don't understand." It sounded so naïve and simplistic, but I refused to believe that he wasn't even willing to try. "You're one of the best people I know, and your all-or-nothing attitude is…" I took a moment to find the word, "…disappointing."

He looked a little affronted right then, lifting his eyebrows slightly and shuffling in the armchair he'd snuggled (please never let me use that word again) into. Intent on having the last word, as usual, I took his bewildered silence as an opportunity to stand as gracefully as possible and exit the room calmly, even though my insides were thumping wildly and trying not to rip themselves to pieces in panic.

Like I said, it was early, so I went back to bed and dreamed about a sunny day.

Which is funny, because my favorite weather is rain.

* * *

**July 7, 1926, 2 p.m.**

That's ridiculous. I had no idea how tired until I actually was until, still struggling with the concept of crawling out of a very comfortable feather bed, I opened one eye to check the wall clock and realized it was 1:30 in the afternoon. It was a little scary.

Hauling myself up 'n' at 'em for the second time today, I didn't even bother checking the mirror this time, instead following my stomach in a virtual bee-line towards the kitchen. Most mornings, I'd wake up bright and early to find Indy at the stove, cooking eggs or bacon or something else delicious, a pleasant smile on his face. Today, however, the room was oddly still, except for the incessant thunder, pelting rain, and infamous Chicago wind outside. I shivered and pulling my bathrobe from the hook on the door, wrapping it quickly around myself to try and stand up to the cold. Not really in the mood to exert effort on cooking (like I ever am?), I took a roll from the breadbox, some olive oil from the cabinet, a banana, and a glass of chilled milk from the ice box for what would be a meager combination of lunch and breakfast. It was pathetic—he's only been here a month, and I already depend on Indy, even if just for his nutritionally balanced cooking.

I settled myself into one of the cold metal chairs at the kitchen table, and just as I was about to bite hungrily into the roll, who should walk in?

Uh, well, I'll give you three guesses, and here are a couple clues to boot: he's about 6' 2" with blue-grey eyes, dirty blonde hair, and a smile that could charm the socks off a snake. Or, more appropriately, the wits from a besotted and befuddled teenage girl.

The weirdest thing, too: he was all cheery-eyed and smirky, a lot like when we first met, and it threw me for a real loop.

"Let me guess," I teased, trying to take advantage of this good mood. "You won the lottery? That or… wait! Wait! Don't tell me… oh, that or you know something I don't and are feeling annoyingly smug about it."

Jackpot. Of course.

The smirk turned into a playful grin as he gracefully took over the chair across from me, sitting backwards on it (like, the chair was facing away from the table but he was facing the table).

"Christ, Jones, what is up with you?" I was genuinely curious at this point, especially after the way I'd just up and walked out of our last confrontation.

"Let me buy you a drink," he suggested, and I just stared dumbly. "You know, a drink?"

The look of utter shock on my face must've said it all. I started to open my mouth to ask if he was flat-out crazy, but he interrupted with a wave of his hand and a quick,

"Don't even think about it, I already made reservations for 7 o'clock _this evening_."

"I knew it! You _are_ crazy, Indiana Jones." He played dumb, acted like he had no idea how ridiculous this was. "Mr. We-can't-be-friends suddenly wants to buy me a drink? And he thinks I'm going to say yes?" Well, of course I wanted to say yes, but whether or not I was going to was a different matter entirely.

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter, Marion," he said matter-of-factly, but with a short glance at his hands, I could immediately tell that they were shaking a little behind the confident façade. That was a little comforting, but then he suddenly stood up from the chair, spun around on the linoleum, and sauntered (there's no other word for it!) away towards his room, leaving me dumbfounded in my pajamas, eating an un-toasted roll with olive oil, a banana, and milk.

He never even offered to cook.

* * *

**July 8, 1926, 2:15 a.m.**

This will without a doubt sound really stupid to anyone not in my position, but after the oddness that came from my hours of primping and preening for Oxley's dinner and my date with Burt, I swore not to spend more than half an hour prepping for drinks (friendly, normal, just-friends drinks, as I kept having to tell myself) with Indy. It was NOT EASY. Using the justification that picking out clothing doesn't count as primping, I spent at least forty-five minutes doing that alone, rifling through my shelves, drawers, and hangers in search of something impressive and cosmopolitan (it was the Royal Garden Club, after all), but still casual and… Marion. If I wanted to be anything tonight, it was me.

Finally, I struck gold, or at least silver, on a pleated moss green dress with ¾ sleeves and off-white trim. The wind and rain were still coming down hard, so I chose black lace-up boots and a matching rain slicker, just in case he had some crazy idea that we were going to walk any distance in this weather. Having gotten dressed, I checked the clock to make sure I was still within my half hour time limit… 10 minutes left. That meant sacrificing something, either my hair or my face.

"It's Indy, he's not going to care," I said carefully to the mirror. Unfortunately, it's a pretty good mirror, and it had (has) a knack for highlighting flaws… every single one of them.

Blemish here! Frizzy hair over there! (Haha, I made a rhyme!) Blah blah blah blah blah, you know what I mean?

I decided that the hair could be sacrificed, so I pulled it up into a messy, curly bun, swept some lipstick on (2 minutes to go!), and rushed out the door with a grey umbrella in hand. Predictably enough, my momentum wouldn't let up once I'd hit the landing and almost send me toppling over the railing onto the entrance hall floor, where Indy was, as always, waiting.

He glanced at his watch.

"Six o'clock sharp," he commented, as upbeat as ever. I was still extremely confused at this point, and could only nod dully and make my way towards the similarly dressed man. Well, I mean, similar like he was also wearing rain gear… not a dress. Ew ew ew ew ew, bad images!!! Ewww…

Ew. Ok. Now that that's over…

"Jones," I had to ask, stopping about halfway across the room to push an unruly black curl behind my ear. "I just… I don't understand. What happened between this morning and… what, 2? What happened between 6 and 2 that changed everything?"

Indy showed signs of a grimace; it seemed I was slowly wearing down his cheerful exterior, but at that point I wasn't sure whether or not that was the best idea. "Can we just… can I just explain this at the restaurant?" he asked, treading carefully around my questioning. I faced him directly, catching his eye and seeing something different than usual—it wasn't playful, curious, or even frustrated, the three most common feelings he displayed around me. It was almost hopeful, and there was no way around giving in to one night of drinks. I sighed, nodding subtly and crossing the rest of the room to stand next to him.

"So, we're not walking this time right?"

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "I'm stupid, Marion," he said, and I frowned, not entirely sure what he meant by that. "But I'm not crazy," he concluded, simultaneously opening the door and popping open the gray umbrella, which had somehow or another made it from my hand to his. It was surprisingly warm out for such weather, but wet nevertheless. I saw the vague outline of a vehicle at the curb and realized that he'd called a checkered cab to take us into the city. It was a sweet gesture, and I knew not a cheap one, but by some miracle I kept my mouth shut and made it all the way to the car with my dignity intact, except for some very damp boots.

God, cars are so much faster than walking… it took a grand total of 10 minutes to get to a restaurant that would've normally taken half an hour to ride my bike to, maybe an hour of walking. Technology is a beautiful thing, I tell ya. I have to admit, though, the whole "not talking" thing during the car ride made things a little weird… usually, at least one of us could make small talk about some crazy shit, like the weather, or how bad our dads are at being dads, or something like that. It just didn't happen. I stared out my window, and he stared out his—five bucks says we were both trying to figure out what to say next. I know I was. That, and trying to ignore the dull electricity between us. I'm calling it dull because that's just how it felt, it wasn't all crackly and hot like normal; it kind of felt like somebody'd put a wet towel over it and tried to hide it, but we could still feel the electric waves. Does electricity come in waves?

No! Wait! Currents. Electricity comes in currents. I knew that.

Anyhow, we stepped into the building, which was so shockingly dry it almost hurt (but then felt really good afterwards… I could definitely make a sex joke right now, but somehow that seems wildly inappropriate). After shedding a couple layers as we passed the coat check, Indy put his hand against my back (oh god) and guided me gently towards a small wooden table with a little "reserved" marker sitting in its center. We took our seats, and I tensed at the removal of his hand. Finally looking up and taking in our surroundings, I realized that our table was right on the edge of the dance floor, which was really about a 20' x 20' stretch of hardwood between the diners and the band on stage.

Indy and I sat on the same side of the circular table, facing the stage. I leaned back against a wooden pillar right next to my chair and breathed out slowly, trying to unwind a little and let things play out. Then, I saw Indy turn towards me out of the corner of my eye, and I turned my head a little to face him, smiling a little bit at the familiar blue-grayness. He smiled a little too, and just as I began to accept the reality that we were, in fact, on a date (whether that was its original intention or not), a tuxedo'd waiter caught my peripheral vision and I muttered,

"Two 'iced teas.' Thanks," never losing eye contact with Indy—it was almost as if I was afraid to look away, because the look in his eyes might disappear before I got another chance to feel it.

He smirked at my order. "You drink gin? I never pegged you for a gin drinker."

"First thing that came to mind," I shrugged. "It's Prohibition… who's got the right to be picky anymore?" A valid question; however, had I been in my right mind, I probably would've just ordered some 'water,' also known as vodka. Somewhere in the back of my mind, but consistently making its way to the front, was a series of thoughts about how wrong this was, how badly it was going to turn out. These were the same thoughts that had been plaguing me since the minute I realized how inexorably attracted I was to everything about the man a seat away from me—his looks, his voice and laugh, his intelligence, compassion, and genuineness were all working against me right then, damn them. He leaned in to say something, and like there was magnetism involved, I mirrored him until we were less than a foot apart, a distance that I guess at this point is becoming pretty normal for us.

"Dance with me," he whispered, and I could feel my head moving up and down of its own accord, my feet stabilize and my legs straighten to stand without my conscious permission, and my hand fall into his own as he led me out onto the nearly empty space. We took up an uncomfortably (or amazingly wonderfully, depending on how you look at it) close stance, his right hand splayed in the center of my back once again – that's now officially my favorite place for it to be – with my left on his shoulder, our other hands joined at shoulder level. I took a deep breath before the music started, trying like a mad woman to relax and believe that this was all 100% dandy, wholesome, and innocent. The music was relatively slow, fast enough to have rhythm, but mellow enough to let me ask the questions I'd pretty much been dying to for the past three and a half hours.

"Can I ask you a question, Indiana?"

He nodded once.

"Well…" I corrected, "Can I actually ask you like fifty?"

He nodded again, hiding a laugh.

"First of all… why?" Simple enough. "Why are we here, Indy?" I knew there was a right answer to this question, and so did he. But what was it?

He faltered a little, but didn't miss a step as we swayed to the music, answering, "I feel terrible about the past week," he admitted. "Nothing's gone right. I've been an idiot… especially the other night, when I tried to… you know…" Kiss me? I thought. Don't apologize for that, I wanted to say. Please don't.

But that's not what I said.

"Oh," I tried to brush it off. "It's not a big deal. You were a little…" I made a drinking motion with my right hand and lifted an eyebrow.

Indy laughed, but this time it sounded a little forced and uncomfortable. Oh, no. No, not again. Things had been going relatively well for the night, hadn't they?

I looked up at him, trying to use his facial expression to gauge what my next move would be. He looked a little pained and withdrawn; it was so early in the night that it hurt to see him so upset already. With me? I wondered. Probably… I'd probably just said something completely tactless and irritating without even knowing it. More couples joined us as the song progressed, and the lights dimmed appropriately, giving the whole scenario a dream-like quality. I kept looking up at Indy to get a reaction out of him, to open him up a little more to my questions, but he remained stoic, refusing to look at me. Finally, it became too irritating, too much like every other time one of us had let our guard down.

"This isn't fair, Indiana," I said, stopping our movement and pulling back about a foot, though he still kept his hands in place as he gave me a puzzled look. How could he not understand? I gestured around the room, indicating exactly what I meant. "You can't… let me run through this with you: first, we're friends. That's nice. Then, we're fighting. Okay, that's not so much fun. Then, you have to go and act all jealous when I go on a date with somebody else, and let's face it, you would've kissed me if I hadn't stopped you," my tone became a little more agitated, frustrated, but still hushed enough to keep the conversation private as I moved back a few more steps to give myself room to wave my hands a little wildly (I almost whacked an innocent passerby on the nose, but what position was I in to feel bad about it?). "Then things got really interesting, Indy, when you said, and I quote, 'This isn't going to work!' Maybe you're right. Maybe it isn't. If you're not going to put some real effort into being my friend, my enemy, my… you know… just don't keep half-assing all of them!"

He surprised me by, not responding with a well thought-out argument of his own, trying to drunkenly kiss me again (which was actually impossible, since we hadn't had anything to drink), or by simply walking out, the way we both had so many times in the past few days. He just stood there, smirking as always.

It was terrible! It was arrogant! It was irritating! It was the most attractive thing I'd ever seen!

"Soooo…" he drawled, tilting his head slightly and transforming that smirk into a light smile. "What're you going to do about it, huh, Ravenwood?"

By this point, I was both fumingly angry and ridiculously confused, so I did the only thing that made sense.

I kissed him. (Really good, too, if I may say so myself.) You could literally feel the pent-up energy and tension crashing into this giant electrical storm as I threw my arms around his neck the way I'd always wanted to, the way I had the night of our first big fight (but for totally different reasons), pressing my lips to his and trying my best not to seem completely desperate. It took him a minute to get his bearings, which worried me because at first I wondered if this wasn't what he'd had in mind, but then he responded forcefully. It almost made me lose my balance, but his hands snaked back around me, one at my waist and the other cupping my jaw firmly, keeping my face tilted towards his for the next… oh, say… 15 seconds?

I don't know how experienced you guys are at kissing, but in a situation like this, 15 seconds is a damn long time. People were staring… probably jealous. Hah. We pulled apart simultaneously (just our faces, the rest of us stayed – not sure how to put this – tangled), both grinning like the idiots we really, truly are for thinking this can work. For about another minute, we just stared at each other and kept grinning. In retrospect, it was really cute.

No one said anything for the rest of the night, which is kind of a blur to me at this point. We kissed, we danced and listened to the music—the gin at the table went unheeded in favor of the oak dance floor. It's mostly a blur, all the way up until about 15 minutes ago, when we arrived home (2 in the morning, give or take) and tread carefully into the entrance hall, not wanting to wake Abner. The two of us stood in the middle of the Oriental rug, trying to figure out exactly what had happened that night, not even thinking far enough ahead to consider what could or would happen next. What is someone supposed to say in a situation like that? It almost felt like I'd forgotten how to talk and have it make sense. Aka speak/write coherently. See what I mean?

Indy was the first to say anything.

"Nothing like this has ever happened to me before," he said cryptically.

"What," I teased, lifting one eyebrow, "you've never kissed a girl? Broken the rules?"

He rolled his eyes. "Of course I've kissed a girl. And broken the rules. At the same time, to boot… but it's never felt this worth it." That made me smile a little bit (thank God it was dark, or he also would've seen me turn bright red).

I brushed his cheek in a way that seemed all too familiar. "You're worth it too, Indiana Jones." With that, I stood up on my tip-toes and kissed him again. It was just supposed to be the kind of chaste goodnight kiss you see on city doorsteps, but he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me gently towards him… I basically melted right there, until I suddenly realized where we were and who might see us if he decided to roll out of bed for a midnight snack. "Good night," I whispered pointedly, fake glaring at Indy and turning around to walk upstairs to my room with as much self-control as possible. At the top of the landing, I glanced over my shoulder, and he was still standing there on the Oriental, grinning impishly. "Good _night_!" I repeated, smiling uncontrollably and walking into my room, shutting the door before falling back against it, my knees literally buckling at the now blurry memories of the night's events—that can actually happen! I had no idea!

So here I am, 15 minutes later. Pajama'd, tooth- and hair-brushed, and relatively drier than I was before. I do love Indiana Jones, I do! I do! And I'm far too tired to even consider the consequences.

(But don't tell him that.)

Love,

Marion


	8. July 8, 1926

**July 8, 1922, 10 a.m.**

I had the weirdest (and, not gonna lie, definitely the best) dream of my young life last night. Well, second only to the one where I flew to one of dad's dig sites on a giant turtle and found the Lost Bark. (I was nine—I thought it was the Lost Bark, okay?) I didn't immediately get why that dream made me so happy; it wasn't like finding the Ark was _my_ dream or anything. Later, it hit me that because I found it, Abner could stop looking, could finally stop dragging me all over the globe the way he had been since Mom died in 1913. China, Australia, Mali, Egypt, Germany, France, Brazil, Peru, Ecuador, Japan, Russia, you name it. Anyways, what I remember so distinctly from that dream, even now, was the – what's the word I'm looking for – _content_ look on his face. It was a look I couldn't ever remember seeing, and couldn't imagine seeing ever again.

So I said that was the best dream, but coming in at a close second is this crazy one I had last night about me and Indy (of course). We were arguing about how awkward things are between us, and then suddenly the scene changed and he was asking me out on a date (except he didn't say it that way, I forget how he said it), and then we went out for drinks, and then we argued again, and then he kissed me! Actually, correction: I kissed him, I remember that part really well. It was one of those dreams that has a really happy, satisfying ending, as opposed to those ones where you wake up right before something really good's about to happen. In the same way, though, that just made it more disappointing, because I've already decided that it's just not gonna—

WAIT. Wait. Wait a minute.

Oh, shit.

Let me get back to you on that one.

* * *

**Later That Day (sometime late at night, I'm too lazy to take that pile of clothes off the clock and find out what time it actually is)**

Okay, so… not a dream. We have officially established that it was not a dream. Apparently, we have also officially established that it was a mistake. We established that it was a mistake and then… oh crap, I'm getting way ahead of myself.

When I left you, I'd just realized the above revelation, and you could say it was a little bit of a shock.

I tried to sit down and missed the chair. That was a lot of fun.

Pride and bum both wounded, I changed super quickly out of my nightclothes and into something that made me look well-rested, not like I'd gotten home at two o'clock this morning, just in case Abner was still home and more paternally acute than usual. As quietly as possible, I slipped out of my room and down the still-creaky stairs towards our underused kitchen, trying to figure out if I wanted to run into _him_ or not. I was leaning towards "not," when suddenly he appeared out of nowhere in the kitchen doorway, smirking. One big stumble and a very close call later, I realized that had I not been on the bottom step when my balance decided to up and go on hiatus, I would've taken my second fall of the day, and it would not have been pretty.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, obviously trying not to laugh. I rolled my eyes, secretly a little confused by his blasé behavior, and I wondered if the whole thing really had been in my head.

"Don't try and be all cute, Jones," I ordered (in retrospect, it came out as more of a question), straightening up and doing my best to glare at him. He, of course, was not terrified at all. He did, however, sigh and look a little resigned. I knew he had a well-earned and shamelessly self-promoted reputation as a kind of ladies' man on campus (and in the field, and in the military, and in the greater New Jersey area), but even he seemed to get that this was a little different. More than a little.

"We've got to…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he cut me off. "We've got to talk. Again." I nodded nervously, my brain racing for the opening sentence to our (third? fourth?) of many awkward confrontations, but as I sat and he stood at our respective ends of the table, he beat me to the punch.

"I'd just like to clarify one thing, sister," Indy started, "you kissed me, not the other way around, OK?" He leaned forward on the table slightly, emphasizing the point. I just gaped. Well, actually I opened my mouth a few times to try and say something, but every time only air came out. That happened for about 20 seconds before he finally spoke again. "Ok, maybe that came out wrong."

This time, I found myself able to nod frantically; still no words though. He took that as a sign to continue and sat down across from me, effectively leveling the playing field.

"What I mean is, you knew exactly what you were doing, am I right?" I shrugged nonchalantly, but it turned slowly into a nod. He leaned forward again, all playfulness and smirking uncharacteristically gone, and he said in a lowered voice, "Marion, can we agree that last night was a mistake?"

Not like I hadn't seen that one coming, but it stung a little. Deciding to give the conversation a little shove in another direction, I relaxed into my chair and smirked.

"Mistake, sure," I admitted. That was when I leaned forward, challenging him. "But we both know that as far as mistakes go, it was a damn good one." (Pretty impressive, if I may say so myself.)

He lifted an eyebrow, definitely reacting to the change. "I was that good, huh?"

"Uh-oh, that's going straight to the ego," I smiled and shook my head at the weird and sudden turn our intense discussion had taken into something kind of lighthearted, witty, and (needless to say) sexually charged. Mmm that's fun to think about.

Indy leaned forward a little farther – I could tell he wasn't full in the chair anymore, because he had to lean on his elbows to stay up and the distance between us was visibly shrinking – and replied, "Marion, sweetheart... put some ice on it. We've got to talk."

Huh.

I became indignant. "Henry Jones Jr., you can't just up and SAY that!" He just fell back into his chair and laughed. He was laughing at me, and I couldn't stand it.

"And why is that, Marion Claire Ravenwood?" he teased, mocking my use of his full name.

"Because…" I started to respond, and then realized I didn't actually have a good reason to give. He looked at me expectantly, and I had to say something. "Because that's what the _girl_ is supposed to say, that's why." It was a valid enough point.

I feel a bout of wordiness coming on (chances are, you've already started to spot the symptoms, symptoms that I refuse to fall prey to), and considering that the following conversation was one I'd rather not rehash line-by-line, here's the short story made even shorter:

That was when the fun ended. As frustrating as it is that this situation actually deserves to be taken seriously, it only took 20 minutes to determine that:

1. Last night was, in fact, a mistake.

2. Half of it was his fault, because the whole "date" thing was his idea. Half of it, for reasons that need not be explained, was mine.

3. It was also, as previously noted, a damn good mistake.

4. It was a mistake that neither of us feel particularly inclined to correct.

If Abner found out either about the initial mistake or about our inability to correct it, we were both dead. For Indy, that meant an end to his protégé status. For me, it probably meant getting yanked out of what was only my second consecutive year of normal high school to go world-traipsing at my father's side, again.

The conclusion? The mistake goes uncorrected and exacerbated behind Abner's back (a very entertaining and satisfying condition on my end) for as long as Indy's here and as long as neither of us gets too attached. That was _unconditional_—after all, he'll head off to Cyrene for UoC field school next semester (or whenever my dad finally gets those permits from the Libyan government), and I – God willing – will get to stay here and finish out my senior year of high school, uninterrupted by the never-ending search for the Ark.

It's fool proof, and neither of us are even fools.

What could go wrong?

Sneakily yours,

Marion


	9. July 14, 1926

**July 14, 1926**

I don't understand. I don't. I really… I simply don't understand why Abner has to be clueless at all the right moments and Sherlock Holmes at all the wrong ones. When it's time to try and understand, you know, _me_, he's definitely the former. When it's time to get me in trouble, his inner Conan-Doyle kicks in. Or when it's time to figure out which remote corner of the globe he's jetting off to next…that's when the brain cells start working again. Great.

In short: he obviously suspects something. The man has stopped sending Indy and I out on errands for him, finds perfectly excusable reasons to always be in the room with us, and whenever he plans to go see some exhibition or meeting that I couldn't care less about, it's imperative that Indy go with him. Networking, says he. Paranoia, says I.

It's not as if we've been terribly conspicuous—maybe a wink once and a while, or – what do you call it? – footsie under the table during dinner (all Indy's idea), but it's not as if we're trying to drop hints or anything! Allow me to regress a little bit: since our intense but pleasantly surprising conversation on Saturday, things have been moving along really smoothly between the two of us! "Us" being me and Indy… Abner wasn't involved until about three days ago. We spent most of that first Saturday wandering aimlessly and awkwardly around the house, trying to decide what to do with this new decision. Pretending to read books while stealing glances at each other, grilling cheese sandwiches, arguing over who gets the last glass of milk (we thumb wrestled… I think he let me win, but what kind of milk-lover would I be if I'd protested?), that kind of stuff.

On Monday, when tensions had settled slightly and we were both feeling a little more comfortable with the conclusions that'd been drawn two days previous, Indy gave me a tour of the university, as if I didn't already know the place by heart. Hah. However, I concede that he did show me this ridiculously great abandoned library that he found one time when he was hiding from someone… I suspect it was the administration. It was really dusty, and all the books look like they'd been there for fifty years. Of course, that's impossible, since the school was only started in 1890, but that's beside the point. The shelves were 20 feet high and beautifully made, with sliding ladders that still worked almost perfectly and just the right amount of cobwebs to be mysterious and spooky without being gross.

"I thought you might like it," Indy said, smirking as he took in my look of wonderment.

"Like it?" I asked, lifting my eyebrows as I examined a desk with someone's notes and pen still sitting there, like they'd just picked up and left without a second thought. They probably had. "I love it! This is… incredible, how did I not know about it?"

"The door was locked?" he suggested, and I scoffed.

"Please, like that has _ever_ stopped me… oh!" I exclaimed, suddenly remembering the picnic I had prepared in my rucksack. I hadn't exactly expected we'd be eating in an abandoned library, but these were the kinds of things you had to play by ear occasionally. "I brought something…"

His eyes widened as I pulled out two turkey sandwiches, fruit salad, milk chocolate bars, lemonade, and… drum roll… a bottle of bootleg rum from Joey Cantonelli's secret liquor cabinet (he owed me one for covering his butt this one time when… nevermind). I've never seen anyone's jaw drop as far as Indy's did just then, and it gave me immense satisfaction. Swaggering over to him, I moved the bottle back and forth, up and down, giggling as his eyes followed it closely.

"You serious?"

"Oh yes," I grinned as he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me up against him.

"I'm so glad you plan ahead," his eyes twinkled, and suddenly he planted one on me. I almost dropped the bottle (almost).

"Well," I said, a little flustered but generally quite pleased with the way things were going, "at least one of us does. Shall we?" I jerked my head towards the picnic blanket (it was actually just an old towel from the linen closet) and lunch spread, and Indy nodded vigorously in agreement—I could almost hear his stomach growling.

"I like this," I stated while chewing pensively on my turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich. Indy glanced up at me with a questioning look on his face. "This," I indicated, gesturing around the room. "You, me, the secrecy… it's fun. It's refreshing. I'm glad you're here, Indy."

He swallowed whatever he'd been chewing on, and I watched, distracted, as the lump moved down his throat awkwardly, hoping he wouldn't choke.

"Yeah," he finally managed to get out. "Yeah, I'm glad too."

The two of us ate in silence for a while, just smiling and thinking and occasionally opening our mouths to say something, but only silence ensued. It was the nice kind, though; the kind where it's okay if no one feels the need to fill it with pointless conversation. It was comforting, in a way, to know that I didn't have to talk or blather or be impressive for a few minutes.

When my sandwich, fruit salad, and chocolate had been effectively diminished, I suddenly felt the urge to explore a little further into the cavernous hall. Indy's eyes were on me as I stood up and felt myself moving, as if by instinct, towards the tallest, dustiest looking shelf in sight. On reaching it, I grinned, wondering what phenomenal intuition had led me to the fictional section… my favorite, of course. There was one title in particular that looked interesting, embossed in gold cursive on a faded red cover: _Love and Peril in the Dark Country_. Surprised and a little impressed, I wondered what on earth an obvious romance/adventure novel was doing at the University of Chicago, a reputedly somber and studious institution (that is, until Indiana Jones enrolled).

"Read something," came a voice from behind me, and I jumped as Indy's arms snaked around my waist, locking themselves together on top of my stomach. Obligingly, I started to scan the pages, but suddenly he was breathing on my ear, my neck, my shoulder, and it was terribly distracting, so I just flipped to a random one and began to read.

"Roxie awoke on a… okay, so there's this girl tied to a big rock or something. The dastardly pirate… ooh, Indy, there are dastardly pirates involved… she struggled – why, I don't know, 'dastardly' brings up lovely images – Indy, stop it! You're making it hard to concentrate," I protested to his consistently warm, soft breath ruffling through my hair. He chuckled, and I could feel his belly jumping (if that's the right word for it) slightly behind me—it reminded me of that party game where people lay their heads on each other's stomachs and start laughing, and then they try to see how many people the laughter affects, it's quite… sorry, you get it.

The breathing ceased, and though I was slightly disappointed, it gave me a chance to find my place on the page once more. "The girl keeps struggling – apparently she'd a red-head, they were very popular in the early 1900s, didn't you know? – and suddenly the dastard plunges his… oh, my…" The room was suddenly very quiet and still. Too quiet. I suddenly realized that Indy'd stopped breathing, and then it hit me why.

"Oh! Oh, oh no, you've got the wrong idea, Jones!" I spun around to face him, shaking my head frantically and waving the now shut book in the air beside me. Indy got a quizzical look on his face, and I started laughing. "You're such a male. It was a dagger, you idiot. He stabbed her… some kind of pirate sacrifice or something." The disappointed look on his face made me start laughing even harder. He joined in with obvious self-deprecation at his own idiotic guy-ness and I buried my face against his shoulder, muffling the snorts and giggles that were sure to follow.

Finally, all the laughter died down and we were left standing there in silence, my back to the bookshelf and my face buried in the collar of his linen shirt, his arms still wrapped tightly around my waist. My breathing regained a steady rate, and suddenly I noticed the smell. The smell.

"Indiana Jones, are you wearing cologne?"

He pulled back a little and smirked. "Maybe."

"I'm flattered that you're so desperate for my approval," I mused, leaning up to kiss him for what was, unbelievably, only the second time that day. My self-restraint wasn't normally so good, you see, and apparently neither was his. This time, instead of a playful smooch (see earlier "planted one on me" etc), I found myself pressed up against the spines of books I was sure would disintegrate under pressure from my back. "Jones," I began, but he cut me off with another kiss, or maybe it was a continuation of the first one, it was impossible to tell.

I felt his tongue enter my mouth, and I was done for. I moved my hands to his light brown hair and he lifted me to his height, pressing me back against the shelves with more force. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his waist, thankful for the pleated skirt that allowed such liberal movement. A few disquieting thoughts entered my mind about how we'd sworn, _sworn_, not to let things get too serious, but they weren't serious yet, were they? This was nothing either of us hadn't done before.

Suddenly, Indy stiffened. Not like _that_, you sex fiends. Like… he just stopped moving, as if some sort electric shock had struck him. I unlocked my legs from around his hips and slid back down the bookshelf onto my feet, having some understanding of what this was about.

"Not too serious…" he breathed, coming back to his senses and stroking the back of my hair. "I'm sorry, Marion, I…"

"Shut up, Jones." That came out wrong. "I'm sorry," I sighed, hugging him. "I didn't mean it like that, it's just… is it wrong that I really want to?"

"No," Indy chuckled, pulling me tighter against him. "But it's definitely wrong that I do. Your dad would have my head on a stake if he found out."

"He's not Romanian, you racist historian, he's Bulgarian. There's a difference."

The air between us (though, quite literally, there wasn't much air between us at that point) settled into a calm.

This was enough, I decided. If sanity and logic and propriety and the threat of a life spent following in my father's footsteps wouldn't let me have everything and anything I wanted from Henry Jones Jr., then this was enough. I fought the suddenly overwhelming urge to tell him how much I loved him, and for how long I had, but talk about getting in too deep. If suppressed sexual urges weren't enough to kill a relationship, the L-word would definitely do the trick. Not too serious. Ha.

"Maybe we should go," he muttered.

"But what about the rum?"

Indy had the audacity to laugh at me, even though I know it wasn't malicious at all.

"Let's save it. I promise that bottle will be gone before I am."

I grinned, liking the sound of that.

We walked home in a forced comfort, if that makes sense, both trying so hard to make everything feel normal, romantic, and natural, both knowing that it was anything but.

In retrospect, Abner wouldn't have to be a detective to notice the tension there. My mistake.

Les adoro,

Marion


	10. July 18, 1926

**Author's Note:**  
I'm baccccccccccccck! And, far more importantly, so are Indy, Marion, and her clueless-but-not-as-clueless-as-we-think father. Man, I am so sorry for these past three years of silence and laziness. To be fair, I was pretty occupied by, you know, life, but all those hours I spent in Paris streaming _West Wing_ re-runs and planning dinner party menus could totally have been better spent writing. I'm back in the field, though (the one with all the excavations), and because real archaeology clearly isn't as exciting as Steven Spielberg's version, I've had plenty of free time with which to get back into the Indy-groove. I can only pray that readership picks up again, maybe (maybe?) even with a couple original readers who, by some grace of the fanfiction gods, still have this thing on Story Alert. Here's hoping, because you guys were great.

* * *

July 18, 1926

Abner, oblivious as he can be to most real-world matters, has this weird habit of noticing and fixing (read: telling _me_ to fix) the strangest little household flaws. Every once and a while, I'll wake up to find a full-page list of almost obsessive-compulsive tasks taped to my bedroom door, often including a request for dinner and always with the tasks listed by room. The day after Indy's and my close call in the library, I awoke to find one of these ridiculous lists on my door and enlisted the help of my… um, boyfriend(?). He seemed hesitant, but I've learned never to underestimate the power of a strategically worded nag.

"Come _on_, Jones. If we share the work, we'll finish early. If we finish early, you can escape on the pretense of errands before Abner gets back, and..."

"Wait, what? Why would I want to avoid Professor Ravenwood?" Indy asked, reeking of a guilty conscience (as if he were the only one). I rolled my eyes and continued.

"…_and_ oh-so-unfortunately have to miss his play by play of Dr. Wilde's presentation on the life and times of John Lloyd Stephens."

"But Stephens is great!" protested Indy, visibly relieved that the greatest threat to his health was boredom.

"Very little remains great when translated into Abnerian," I countered, "a translation which I doubt dear Johnny and his Egyptian explorations will survive."

Indy's face fell and his eyes widened in mock fear. "But… but what about the Yucatán?" he stammered, playing along. I shook my head sadly.

"Another thrilling adventure which, under my father's tender, loving care, will soon sound about as exciting as this to-do list."

"Alright," he responded resolutely. "What's our challenge?"

"You make it sound like we're going into battle," I commented.

"What else do you call that list?" Indy responded, eying it warily. "Seriously, what's up first?"

I glanced briefly at the list, scanned it for the most ridiculous task, and grinned when I hit:

"Catalogue the second library according to the Library of Congress decimal system (Oxley's been commissioned to survey the Gobi, and I believe he'll be in need of my collection of official reports from the Pan-Oriental Geologic Society)."

The 'second library,' as my father so optimistically calls it, is in fact the attic, a massively disorganized collection of everything from archaeological illustrations, to biographies of the leaders of outlying English and French colonies, to, it seems, the official reports of the Pan-Oriental Geologic Society.

"Good think I like Ox," muttered Indy, after snatching away the list to confirm the insanity of what I'd just read aloud to him. I nodded in assent. Harold Oxley is hands-down the most tolerable member of the Oriental Institute at UChicago, and there are even days when I think we could be friends. Maybe. Kind of. When he's got a few drinks in him and stops thinking about those stupid crystal skulls for a second. And I thought the _Ark_ sounded like bogus.

Whatever little tensions had awkwardly manifested themselves at the library not 18 hours earlier, it seems like there's nothing a day of totally absurd household chores and light banter can't clear up. Like iodine on the proverbial paper cut, just without that weird yellow stain.

I'm not great with metaphors. This'll clearly have to change if I ever want to be a writer, which – and we can discuss this later – I've actually been thinking wouldn't be too horrible. I mean, I love reading stories, so why not create them? Lord knows there are a million floating around my head (more inspired by Indiana than I'd like to admit), and I've read some pretty bad books in my time, so the standard for getting published can't be _that_ high, can it?

Unfortunately, we distracted ourselves _too_ well. An alphabetized library was soon followed by a thorough (and thoroughly amusing but pretty gross) cleaning of the ice box, which turned into a whole series of landscaping and dust-related tasks. By the time we realized the time – seven hours had passed, and Abner was due home any minute – it was too late for Indy to make his escape.

Surprisingly worn out from what had seemed like only a few hours of domesticity, I leaned back against the foyer wall and, feeling an uncontrollable urge to sit, found myself sliding down the wall into a little puddle of dust and frizz. A few moments later, Indy came in and slid down next to me, grinning oddly.

"You were never going to try and escape, were you?" I asked through the exhaustion.

Indy shook his head sheepishly back and forth, now slightly matted dirty blonde hair falling in front of his face. "Why should you face the Professor's monotone alone? I'll always be here to share the burden of boredom."

My eyebrows shot up. "Always," I repeated incredulously, scrutinizing his face, expecting him to blush and back-track to erase that dangerous word from the conversation.

"Always."

I intently redirected my intention to the Chinese painting on the opposite wall, tracing the delicate curls of the leaves and the sweep of each mountain, focusing even harder in an attempt to stabilize my features when I felt Indy grab my hand.

_Always_.

For a minute, I just let it hang above us, as visible as one of those giant "happy birthday" signs that my mom used to string up twice a year across this very room – once for Dad, and once for me. We never thought to extend her the same celebration, though I did always try to make her a card with the nice colored paper and pencils at school. She kept them all. Now I have them.

Suddenly, the front door swung open, and Abner ambled into the room. Luckily, he chose to pay more attention to the proper placement of his stiff straw hat on the (now gleaming) brass wall hangers than on the junction of Indy's and my hands. Those few seconds were enough to calmly withdraw mine and scoot as many inches away from its holder as I could without making too much fuss.

"Henry," he sighed, sounding slightly weary as he turned around to face us. If he saw anything suspicious, he didn't say it, just repeated Indy's (Henry's… weird) name. "Come into the kitchen, would you, my boy? I have a proposition that I believe you'll find quite fascinating."

I squinted in confusion, and it was then that he finally seemed to register my presence.

"Mare, my dear, would you head up to your room? Or the library, possibly? Henry and I must speak privately."

Nodding slowly in an attempt to hide my irritation at his use of the nickname and my utterly piqued curiosity at this "fascinating proposition" – a lead on the Libyan expedition, or Ark news that would take them both to Timbuktu before I could even open my mouth to protest? I prayed that wasn't the case. I prayed as hard as I could to the God I don't believe in. I prayed as I forced my tired legs to shove the rest of my body up the wall, pleaded silently as I moved up the stairs towards my door, my eyes continually shifting between Indy and my father. They, however, seemed to have eyes only for each other as they headed for the kitchen (the conference room, as I should probably start calling it).

A storm was brewing, that much was clear in my father's unusually furrowed brow and the sudden tension in Indy's shoulders. But would it be a captivating, productive, electrical storm, or a devastating tornado? I couldn't tell. We get both in Chicago.

It didn't take too long to realize that it was the latter variety. Normally I'd have sat on the stairs and eavesdropped like the schoolgirl that I am, but the potential consequences of the conversation going on downstairs were too ambiguous and scary for me to want to hear.

I heard raised voices, and not the mutually joyful kind. Hmm, it probably didn't involve the Ark then, which meant I was off the hook for that worry. Unless… no, no way. He couldn't possibly have figured it out. We were good! _We_ _were subtle, we were smart_, I tried to convince myself, even though I knew just how far that was from the truth.

The voices reached a peak. I didn't even know whose voice was whose until heavy footsteps sped through the front hall, the front door opened and slammed, and I heard my father yelling out the window, "You've made your choice, Henry Jones!" and then more quietly, more to himself, "and we will not forget."

This was three days ago. I haven't seen Indiana since.

Prayerfully yours (what am I praying for, again?),

Marion


	11. July 19, 1926

July 19, 1926

What. Just. Happened. And why am I awake, much less writing in my journal? I mean, I hear this kind of thing can mess with your emotions, but anything that messes with my _sleep patterns_ is clearly more serious than anticipated.

I was staying up fairly late anyways, writing the outlines I'd never flesh out into stories, leafing through outdated fashion magazines and fretting over him… both of them, really. Indy had been missing since the evening of the 15th, and Abner had hardly been able to look me in the eye since, much less engage in a conversation. Granted, that's always been kind of a problem for us.

By the time I heard the barely audible knocking noise coming from the foyer, the clock already showed a quarter to midnight. It didn't matter that I hadn't slept solidly in four days. I knew who it was, and some demi-godly speed had me down the stairs, throwing open the door and flying into his arms almost before I'd registered it happening.

"Wuvyubin," I mumbled into Indy's soft corduroy jacket, a floppy, oversized, dirt brown thing that I'd always hated. In that moment, though, I loved it more than almost anything.

"Huh?" he responded wearily, pulling away just enough to free my mouth from his lapel.

"Where… have… you… been?"

It came out as an elevated whisper. It had to. Even though Abner had already been asleep for going on three hours, I somehow knew that he wouldn't be happy about his protégé's (ex-protégé's?) sudden appearance on the doorstep, not to mention my reaction to it.

"I can't stay, Marion. I just…" Indy hesitated, obviously distressed. "I just came to apologize. I've been so selfish, Marion, so horribly and unforgivably and inhumanely selfish and short-sighted. It was all a… no, it wasn't a trick, but it was, but it was a warranted one, and no! No, it was a test, and I failed, and Marion… oh god, I've been so selfish."

In the time it took him to spill that terrifying monologue, I'd led him inside to the oriental, shut the door as quietly as possible, removed that silly felt hat of his, and smoothed his slightly matted and clearly neglected hair. I pretended to not notice the slightly red tinge to the whites of his eyes. Indy didn't cry. He never cried. If he'd been crying, it was time to… no, no way. He'd probably just been drinking. Somehow, that thought was infinitely more comforting than the alternative.

"We can't talk here," I murmured, trying hard to stay rational for the both of us as I led him carefully up the stairs, making as little noise as I could and trying to keep him from distractedly veering into the wall. I hated having to care for a war hero who could barely walk straight. "Abner's sleeping just down the hall. Come on."

Finally, we made it into my room, which looked as messy as if Indy and Abner's tornado had blown straight through. I shoved a pile of unwashed clothes and half-filled sketchbooks off the bed and sat Indy gently down on it, hanging his hat on the bedpost.

"Unforgivably selfish," he muttered again, staring at his folded hands.

What could he possibly have done (or thought he'd done) that would inspire such incapacitating remorse? He wasn't exactly the type to overreact, and only one thing short of treason or murder struck me as capable of rendering him so self-hateful, so desperate to apologize and to beg my forgiveness.

But I didn't want to think about it. I couldn't. But if… if this really was the worst case scenario, then knowing my deceptively scheming father, it wasn't Indy's fault at all. With that comfort in mind, I did the one thing that I knew would pull him back into the real world with me, even if it was only temporary. The one thing I always do. My band-aid on the gunshot.

Lifting Indy's chin and leaning over to press my lips to his, I murmured, "I forgive you."

He shook his head but didn't attempt to pull away.

"You don't, Marion. You won't. Not if you…"

Maybe I wouldn't, I thought, but right then I didn't care. His desperation was contagious; I could feel it crawling over me, invading my mind and activating my fears, weaknesses, insecurities, regrets.

"I do, Indiana," I responded with more force, putting my hands on his shoulders and shifting over on the bed so that I was straddling his lap, smoothing his hair and kissing his forehead. "I do," I repeated, kissing his temples. "I do." His eyelids. "I do." His roughly hewn cheekbones. "I do." His lips.

Finally, something seemed to snap him out of his depressed reverie.

"You do?" he repeated, lifting his eyes to mine. A stronger blue-grey shock ran through me than I'd ever imagined could, through my skull and my spine and arms and legs, all the way to the tips of my fingers and the cartilage in my ears.

"Are you stupid, Jones, or just deaf?"

I rolled my eyes, thrilled to see him come back to life at my touch – _my touch_ – and feel his hands move to my waist, where they took hold with a solidity I hadn't anticipated.

"I'm just in…" he trailed off. Oh my god, was he about to say…? I gave him about ten seconds before prompting gently,

"Yeah?" I don't think I breathed while waiting for him to respond.

"…in trouble. The worst trouble of my life, and it's all your fault," he responded. My heart dropped into my stomach, but I was determined not to let some girlish disappointment stop me. Stop us.

Feigning amusement, I replied coyly, "You knew what you were doing," and confidently pushed the mud-colored jacket off his shoulders. Leaning forward, I thought I felt myself falling for a moment, before I realized that he was leaning back onto the bed, and pulling me with him.

Well, I hardly need to tell you what happened from there. If you're crafty enough to have found this diary, you probably know what happens when attractive (if I may say so myself), emotionally unstable youths find themselves locking lips on a bed.

I _can_ tell you that it was wonderful. It was everything they say it's supposed to be. Yes, it was my first time – as much as I've enjoyed dating and fooling around and all those things that proper young women aren't supposed to know exist, I've never actually met someone with whom I felt comfortable going all the way. Not that it's an enormously emotional act, in and of itself, but it is a moment of vulnerability, and I don't let just anyone see me vulnerable.

It felt like we laid there for an eternity, laughing and kissing and making characteristically snarky comments and pretending that this didn't mean the end. And then going in for round two. And round three. There may even have been a round four. All I know is: how am I possibly awake right now?

I bet he never did this with Nancy.

Finally, I heard the church bell a block and a half away give off two clear, mournful tolls. Indiana shifted beside me in the bed, and I glanced up to see his gaze directed out the window. Pushing myself up with my elbows and leaning forward to the foot of the bed, I pulled his hat from the bedpost and pressed it gently down on his head before leaning in to kiss him one more time.

"I'll see ya tomorrow, Indiana Jones."

Even I could hear the hollowness and resignation embedded in those five simple, seemingly routine words. Something told me that within 24 hours, I would be on the other side of the world from the one person I had, at least for a few precious moments, believed could have shared that world with me. Apparently that's not how this is supposed to go.

Indiana nodded slowly, trying to paste on a smile. It was really just a barely disguised grimace, and far from what I'd hoped my final image of him would be like.

And he left. After dressing himself, that is. Though I think his shirt might've been on backwards, so good thing it's two in the morning and the Fifth Avenue fashionites aren't out. (Sidenote: anyone who can make such a solid quip on a night like this is clearly destined to be a writer.)

Oh man, I just know he was about to say he loved me. They say love conquers all, right? If 'they' are right, guess I don't have too much to worry about. This kind of thing doesn't just _go quietly_.

Not like Indy just did.

This is not how things are supposed to go. I swear to all that is good in this world: Abner is going to pay for whatever he did to make Indy leave.

Loved (and left),

Marion


	12. July 20, 1926

July 20, 1926

Scratch whatever I said back on the 14th—Dad's not Sherlock. Not even _close_. He's goddamned Moriarty! On a smaller scale, though, because he's not out to destroy the entire world. Just mine.

And Indiana! That ambitious, self-serving, commitment-phobic son of a bitch is going along for the ride like it's the Coney Island Cyclone. It's all fun and games and no one ever gets hurt or at least they don't _tell you_ when people get hurt, because Coney Island is too good and happy and _lucrative_ for that to ever happen!

Distress is clearly not conducive to proper grammar, and proper grammar (or at least intelligible writing) is necessary for me to record today's events as clearly as possible. I need clarity in my head, and I need to be able to come back and read this one day. You know, as a reminder of the horrible things that can, and apparently do, happen to people stupid enough to fall in love, and as a warning to never make that mistake again.

In spite of a late and, um, _active_ night, I found myself barely able to sleep and out of bed as soon as light through the window indicated that rising was socially acceptable. The sun was up, and I was out for blood. Seriously, patricide may seem heinous and horrible in Elizabethan literature, but this morning it seemed like a distinct possibility.

"What did you _do?_" I practically shrieked as I raced down the stairs towards the kitchen, where I somehow knew that Abner would be waiting for me. Obviously, he didn't know about the events of the night/early morning previous, but something just told me that's where he'd be. Waiting. Circling the emotional wagons and locking me out, like always.

I must've been a terrifying sight, standing in the kitchen door with mussed hair, bags under my eyes, and goodbyes caught in my throat where "see you tomorrow" had left them in the dust.

The intense sadness in Abner's eyes stopped me dead in my tracks.

"What did you do?" I repeated, this time in a near-whimper.

"All I did was to catalyze a decision that he surely would have had to make sooner or later."

"You made him leave."

"I made him choose."

"Between?"

"Us."

_I'm sorry, WHAT?_

"Why would you _do_ that?" my voice began to gather back its strength, and I took a few more steps towards the drawn, world-weary man at the table.

"Marion, my dear," he began almost too calmly, as if forcing himself to remain rational in the presence of this wild, distraught being in front of him. Just like I had with Indy the night before. "How daft do you think I am, really? Or blind? That I could entirely miss what's been going on in my own home for over a _month_ between the two people I care most about in the world?"

_The people you care most about?_ I wanted to scream at him. _I would NEVER do… whatever you did… to anyone I gave more than a rat's ass about!_ But I didn't, because I couldn't.

"I told Henry that I could not approve of a fellow of his – reputation and wanderlust, shall we say – carrying about with my daughter. It would only end in misery for you." _Um, good call._ "So I gave him a choice: my tutelage, or you, and…"

"And he chose me, so you kicked him out?" I cut in, fury helping me find my voice, but the heartbroken look that covered my father's face just then told me everything.

_No. No, no, no, no, NO._

Before I even knew what was happening, my legs had turned to gelatin and Dad was gently guiding me into the nearest chair. How he'd gotten up and halfway across the room in time to catch me, I have no idea. Parental adrenaline, maybe. That'd be a first for him.

"He chose archaeology," I choked out through the giant lump in my throat, feeling sick.

"It was a test," said Abner quietly, tucking my hair behind my ears and trying as best he could to comfort the crying girl he knew better than I'd ever thought he could. "I… I wanted to know how much he cared for you. What he would give or sacrifice. He made his choice, and…" Abner sighed, pulling over another chair and scooting into it so that he could hug me properly, like I'd needed him to for so damn long. "…he chose poorly."

Tomorrow, we leave, though whereto and for how long I have no idea. It seems there actually _is_ a lead on the Ark, and there has been for a while, but Abner couldn't bring himself to tear me once again from this little home we've made in Chicago. Now he sees it's time to be torn away, and I couldn't agree more. Libya or Brazil or Australia or Japan… I couldn't care less where we go, and chances are we'll hit all four and then some. I've just got to get away and be with the one person on the planet who I know still cares about me, however terrible he is at showing it.

I won't say that nothing could have prepared me for this. _I_ could easily have prepared myself with just a little more emotional restraint and a little less recklessness, desperation and self-destructive rebellion.

But really, how do I know that? What do I even know? I'm just a child. A ridiculous, self-absorbed little child who can't tell love from fascination from lust and no, that's a lie. I loved him. I _love_ him, and in the spirit of full diary disclosure, I probably will for a long time.

But I will hate him. If it takes a year, five years, ten goddamn years, I will learn to _hate_ Indiana Jones.

Today, I lost everything: my freedom, my father (at least, the father I've been imagining and projecting for so long), and my Indy.

Oh, bullshit. We all know he was never mine.

Always,

Marion


	13. April 11, 1937

**April 11, 1937**

Carmelita, El Petén, Guatemala

_He was never mine._

Indiana must have read that line a thousand times since he'd found Marion's diary five months ago, tucked carefully into the breast pocket of an old UChicago sweater of Abner's.

Marion never wore the sweater. In fact, it rarely left the depths of her dresser, and it was just for this reason that Indy had pegged it as the potential hiding spot of that little tawny journal he'd spent so long searching for. Marion was a utilitarian – if she never wore the sweater or, you know, carried around in memory of Abner (Indy quickly discarded that notion), then she was definitely using it for _something_.

For just over a year now, the two heroes of the Ark – that stupid fucking Ark, with all its mountain-leveling, Nazi-melting, and family-shredding powers – had been deeply involved in what one could only describe as a… tumultuous relationship. But why was it so delicate, so prone to explosions of anger and distrust and unsaid things? Indy still couldn't understand. He was back. He loved her. She loved him. It should've been simple.

Then again, Indy and Marion had never been _simple_. Lately, the thrill of their (literally and figuratively) fiery reunion on that Nepalese mountainside and the great adventure that ensued seemed as far away as ever. As much as Indy hated to admit that anything about his life was short of adventure film-worthy, his relationship with Marion had definitely fallen into a kind of nomadic, unstable pattern of long flights, ancient relics, and utter instability. It was… boring.

Marcus calls Indy about a "retrieval" job.

Indy unfailingly goes for it, even though he promised Marion that the last one was the _last one_.

Marion rolls her eyes and packs up their entire life into a couple of steamer trunks.

(She never forgets the booze. He never forgets the guns.)

Indy fights tooth and nail for something old and shiny.

Marion keeps her eyes peeled for a long-term gig.

("Chapman Andrews is looking for a co-director, right? You speak Mandarin, right? I like China. And I like Yvette.")

Indy says sure and promises her this is the last one.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

_Okay_, Indy thought, reworking the process in his head. So maybe Marion's frustration made a little more sense when he put it like that, but he still couldn't figure out what had gotten her so…_ Jesus, what is she, even? Her anger's gone. Enough. I think. And, brother, hard as the stubborn little thing tried, she never actually hated me, which leaves what?_

_Oh. OH._

Fear. Of course, right? That had to be it. All the moving, all the restless searching, the selfish and single-minded disregard for her aspirations to an even vaguely established life.

_She's afraid I'm going to leave again, that I want these things more than I want her._

_That's just stupid._

All these months, Indy had been scanning his girlfriend's diary in an endless search for clues to their problems. Normally, he was pretty adept at the whole problem-solving thing, but all along it had been right on that page. Those four words.

_He was never mine._

He was never mine? He'd always been hers. She must know that! If, for some bizarre psychological reason, she didn't, then he was about to remind her.

"Marion!" Indy called, unceremoniously tossing her journal onto the low kitchen table and heading for the bedroom. Rather impressed at this emotional revelation, one of the very few that ever deigned to enter his adrenaline-and-gold-fueled brain, he repeated, "Marion, I got it! I know what it is, and I know how to fix it, because the thing is that…"

His enthusiasm faded at the sight that greeted him. On the bed, there sat a medium-sized suitcase containing a piles of neatly folded clothes (women's clothes), a small stack of hardcover books (novels, so definitely Marion's books), a large wad of cash wrapped in purple yarn, and a heavily used passport. Marion was sitting languidly in a worn-out armchair in the corner, her legs crossed under her and her right hand dangling a half-smoked cigarette out the window.

"You're not leaving," said Indy, though he sounded a little short on conviction. While Marion had frequently threatened him with a one-way ticket back to the States, he'd never actually seen a packed bag. She'd never followed through, and she wouldn't now.

"No, I'm not," replied Marion, her voice dripping with irony as she crushed the butt of her cigarette on the windowsill and stood slowly, revealing a pair of well-loved oxfords and a blue linen dress under an oversized gray blazer, the sleeves of which were rolled functionally up to her elbows. No doubt about it: those were traveling clothes. Marion made her way over to the bed, stuffing the cash in her left pocket, the passport in her right, and latching the suitcase shut. "I just felt like packing, because it's so. Much. Fun."

Indiana was dumbstruck as Marion calmly picked up the suitcase and started to move past him towards the door. No way was this happing. It couldn't be. No higher power would time his revelation, possibly the key to their survival as a couple, with her finally getting the conviction to leave him.

"You can't leave! Not now, not when… Marion, I figured it out. What we need to do."

Marion stopped and turned on her heel, her usually hazel eyes dark with anger.

"What _we_ need to do? _We?_ You are such a child, Indy!" her voice rose, and she dropped the suitcase in order to free her hands for the wild gestures that were so characteristic of her tirades. "I've been doing everything I can do, everything I know _how_ to do, to keep you happy and keep you here and keep this relationship in one piece, and I'm done! How many times have we been through this: what _we_ need to do, the compromises _we_ need to make. What about everything _I've_ left behind to follow you to the ends of the goddamn Earth, with nothing to show for it but sore feet and a few thousand bucks from those stupid trinkets that, for whatever reason, Marcus continues to buy off you? I could have a _life_ in Chicago, Indiana – hell, I could probably even have one with you – but you just couldn't deal with being out of harm's way and out of the archaeological spotlight. You'll always…" she faltered for a moment, closing her eyes briefly and taking a deep breath before looking straight at him. "I am done playing second fiddle, Indy. You'll always choose archaeology over me."

Even though it completely confirmed his 'fear' hypothesis, Indy wasn't quite sure what to say to that. The fact was, most of it was true, except for one very important point.

"I never chose archaeology over you."

Marion scoffed and leaned against the wall, crossing her arms defensively in front of her.

"You can't be serious, Indy. Of _all_ the points to contest, you had to pick the most definitive and undeniable fact of the _entire_ time we've known each other?"

Shaking his head in confusion for a few moments, Indy suddenly realized what she was talking about. Of course… of course, he _knew_ something was missing from those journal pages.

"He never told you, did he?" asked Indy quietly, frowning. Now it was Marion's turn to look confused.

"Who never told me what?"

"Your father. Abner. About the day we…"

"Of course he did," Marion interjected. "He told me everything. How he offered you the chance to work with the Tutankhamen collection if you'd leave me alone. How you agreed without a second though. How you…"

"I was going to come back, Marion! I told him that!"

That effectively shut her up, causing Indy to sigh gratefully at this chance to finally make his point, something that rarely happened during their arguments. Of course, this was because she was usually in the right, but it seems there's a first time for everything.

"Abner did give me choice. He told me that he'd known about us for… I don't know, pretty much as long as he could have. He was always more perceptive than you – than _we_ gave him credit for. And boy, did he care about you—"

"Get to the point," she snapped, not sure if she liked where this was going.

"Yeah," Indy breathed, still working out how to approach this 'point.' "Even though Abner said he didn't approve, he seemed calm about it. Then, he told me I had to choose. Him or you. God, I almost died right there, but he even gave me an easy out, said that he'd been able to convince Carter to get me access to the Tutankhamen collections in the Cairo Museum. That's shit no one but the excavators had even ever _seen_ before. It was a choice, he said, between a summer fling with a silly girl…"

"He didn't say that!"

"He said that, Marion. Let me finish, would you? You never let me finish."

"Fine. Finish."

"It was a choice between a fling, and lab work on the most important archaeological finds of the twentieth century. Obviously I had no idea that those ceramic analyses would get me the professorship at Marshall, but I knew it was big, and I knew… I told Abner that I'd go to Egypt, because I was arrogant enough to think that I could work his system. You would be eighteen and off to college in less than a year, and I'd have this huge publication under my belt, at which point he'd have no power over either of us. I wanted to say goodbye and tell you everything, but…" Here, Indy found himself at a loss for an explanation.

"You wanted to have it all. Go to Egypt, get the treasure. Come bad, get the girl. Frankly, it sounds like you could have, if you hadn't been too emotionally _distraught_ and fraught with _guilt_ to explain your thought process to me."

Indy smiled. He loved how easy a way Marion had with words, but the smile faded when she added:

"That's funny, though, since you clearly had the presence of mind to sneak into the house and sleep with me before going off to make your career."

That wasn't exactly the response he'd been anticipating.

"Well, when you put it like that…"

"Goodbye, Jones."

And with that, Marion pulled a straw fedora off the door hanger, picked up her bag, and walked out of the room as if nothing had happened. She paused only to pick her diary up off the table in the kitchen, not bothering to question what it was doing there, and then again to battle with the old, rusty door.

Its slam shook Indy out of his reverie, and for a moment he just stood stupidly in the bedroom, his brow furrowed as he tried to walk himself back through what should have been a very successful argument.

Then, he sighed – he'd been doing a lot of that today – and traced Marion's steps out to the hall. He stopped when he reached the door, a hint of a smile gracing his lips, the self-confident smirk of a man who thought he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Five," he murmured. "Four… three… two… one…"

Nothing happened. This was new. Usually… okay, let's try again.

"Five… four… three… two… one…"

Okay, now Indy was getting nervous. It never took Marion this long to come back after an argument, convinced by the fact – inexplicable as it was – that they couldn't actually live without each other. Not to mention the fantastic make-up sex. Oh shit, what if she was actually…?

Unable to stand the thought that she was actually following through this time, maybe even already getting on her bike to the nearest Maya village, where they had a phone and would definitely be able to call a driver. What if her anger had inspired superhuman speed, and she was already at the Flores airport, and…

Indy rushed into action, wasting six precious seconds in a struggle with the rusty doorknob – he should've fixed this the other day when Marion brought it up. Suddenly it gave, launching his entire weight onto the front porch at full speed and almost bowling over Marion, who just gave him a bemused, slightly condescending look. "Klutz," her eyes said. At least now they were back to good old hazel.

"You were counting again, weren't you?" she asked, sounding a little impatient. "Don't act like I'm so predictable, Indy; it's insulting."

Too relieved at her presence – okay, so maybe his fear of her developing superhuman speed had been a little irrational – Indy just kissed her lightly.

"Am _I_ predictable?" he asked.

"Depends," Marion responded, shrugging noncommittally.

"On what?"

"On my prediction." She smirked.

"Alright then," he played along. "And what do you think's going to happen next, Marion?"

"I think… I think we're going to kiss and make up, for now. We'll be okay for a little while; I'll pick up everything and enjoy the adventure, and you'll make more of an effort to assuage my fear of your wanderlust. It's too bad, though, because you're totally incapable of taking my sacrifices seriously, and I've yet to accept your obsession with dead men, so soon enough we'll get back to fighting and threatening and leaving until neither of us can take it anymore and this whole thing just implodes. Explodes. Does something unpleasant. That's what I think."

"Yeah? Well…" Indy was tempted to counter her pessimism, but the inevitably ensuing argument would only prove her point and undo all the progress he'd made this afternoon (had he made any progress?), so he resorted to just kissing her again. And then, without entirely knowing why, he said it.

"How about you marry me instead?"

Silence.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Would you prefer I ask in Spanish? Russian? Ancient Greek?"

Indy felt his palms begin to sweat at her hesitation, even though he could hardly blame her.

"Yes."

Uh, he hadn't really meant that part about the languages, but okay.

"Quiero que nos casemo…"

Marion laughed then, revealing the most blinding, beautiful, unreserved smile and pressing her palms to his chest, lifting all the weight and tension of the day from Indy's shoulders.

"No!" she exclaimed, trying to clarify. "I mean… yes, I will marry you. It's insane and hasty and probably a horrible idea, but the truth is that I'd like nothing more in the whole damn world than to marry you right here, right now."

He felt himself returning the smile, letting himself bask in the overwhelming happiness of the woman in front of him – his _fiancée_ – and pulling her to his chest, relaxing into her and him and them in a way he hadn't in weeks, maybe even months.

"If I could, I'd… I'd… God, I love you," he murmured into her dark, dusty, wavy, messy, perfect hair.

"Not God, dear, just Marion," she quipped back into his chest, pausing for comedic effect before looking up at him with an expression of totally unfettered affection. "I love you too, Indiana Jones."

As the sun set below the long horizon, casting gold and crimson shadows against the otherwise perfectly green landscape of the Guatemalan rainforest, Marion closed her eyes and let herself be enveloped in Indy. Her Indy. For a moment, she even let herself entertain the possibility that this was the beginning of an entirely different way of life for the two of them. It could be a new world, one where they would live perfectly ever after, with no more disputes, fears, secrets, miscommunication, or wild goose chases across the globe and deadly battles for arcane objects.

Just her, and him, and maybe even… no, that was jumping the gun a little bit. But who could tell? This time it might work out. It _would_ work out. It would be happy and thoughtless and safe; it would be her and Indy, and maybe the world would finally pay her back for 28 years of unkindness and frustration.

Everything _would_ go right, she decided, because that's how these things are supposed to go.

* * *

**Author's Note**

And then some crazy shit went down, and George Lucas made a really horrible 4th movie about it.

But I didn't write this story for the ending, because we all know what that is. I wrote it because by the time I hit 16 (when I started this story), I couldn't stand not knowing the Indy-Marion back story and just had to create one. It definitely hit the spot for me, and though I can't speak for y'all, I hoped it helped at least a little with filling in those mysterious years.

Thank you, thank you, and THANK YOU for reading. This is the first story I've ever finished, and I'm so glad and proud that you were all able to go through it with me. Maybe some of you are even my original readers from 2008… holy crap, 2008. I am extremely sorry for the delay. Writer's block is supposed to last 3 weeks, not 3 years.

I actually just wrote these past four chapters last month in the course of about six hours. I was on an excavation where we only had internet once a week, which forced me to find other ways to fill my free time. Besides darts and beer-chugging with my archaeological homies.

Thanks again, a million times over. I wish that I'd written enough to be able to philosophize on the relationship between a story and its readers, but I can't. Give it a few more years.

Gros bisous sans fin,

Elizabeth


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